The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
by Jaelijn
Summary: Singular warnings arrive at Baker Street in the most inopportune moment. A horrendous crime is to be committed... Full-length mystery! No slash. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: My first full-length mystery! Proofread by medcat - many thanks! Please read and review. _

_Disclaimer: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission. This disclaimer is valid for all chapters.  
_

_

* * *

_

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 1**

It was one of those unpleasant evenings in Baker Street when everybody seemed to have the good sense of staying at home, save the occasional cab. Fog was billowing between the houses and in the street, making it almost impossible to see further than the windowsill. The cold was seeping through the walls, making the temperature inside plummet despite the fire, and leaving a decidedly wet feeling to everything.

I was huddled up in an armchair by the fire, my old wounds throbbing persistently. I had spent my day reading, but in my heart I wished I had been able to accompany my dear friend Mr Sherlock Holmes.

He had gone out in the morning, with the energetic air of having an interesting case at hand, although he had not permitted me to share his thoughts. I did not recall any interesting letters even though I had been confined to our flat for several consecutive days, but to my surprise Holmes seemed to have altered his unhealthy habits – he had had a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast nevertheless, yet he had been taciturn and evasive, even more so than usual. He had studied the newspapers with great care when I had come down, greeting me with a look and nod. Soon after he had put down the papers, he jumped from his chair and collected his coat and hat. "I'm going out, Watson. I shall be returning late."

"Shall I accompany you?"

"No, Doctor. The weather is quite unpleasant. I will do nothing spectacular without you at my side." He smiled slightly, and then he was off.

I had told Mrs Hudson to wait with lunch until he returned, eager to learn what mystery he was investigating, even though he had indicated he would be late, which was, after all, no unusual occurrence.

Darkness was falling quickly in those days, and I rose to turn up the gas and have a look out of the window before closing the blinds for the night. The fog had dissipated considerably, lingering only very close to the ground, and I saw a cab turning into Baker Street and rattling along towards our lodgings, slowed by the weather conditions. To my surprise, it stopped at our front door, and Holmes climbed out, tossing a coin up to the driver, who whipped his horses and was off. It wasn't even eight, and certainly far from late – to Sherlock Holmes, late was at least two in the morning.

But sure enough I heard his voice downstairs, and his familiar steps on the stairs, as secure and rapid as ever, until he opened the door without bothering to knock. "Ah. I thought I had seen you by the window." He seemed to be in a good enough mood, although the gleam of interest in his eyes and the energy in every fibre of his body had disappeared. To me, who knew his very mood and habit, he did look tired. He undressed in his room and returned in his dressing gown, carrying his violin. With the flicker of a smile in my direction, he seated himself on the sofa, and, shrugging off his slippers, lay down upon it.

"I assume you had a pleasant day?" I sat down in my own chair, keeping an eye on him. To see him without his pipe was curious to say the least.

"Quite." He watched me with his ever-keen eyes, even as he moved to place the violin under his chin.

"You're early."

"Am I?" He glanced carelessly at his pocket-watch and shrugged. "Mrs Hudson will be bringing up dinner in half an hour. Is that agreeable, Watson?"

"Yes, certainly."

He closed his eyes and placed his bow on the violin.

"Holmes?"

"Hm?"

"You have been away all day, and I assume from your haste this morning, that you are working on an interesting case – however, you breakfasted heartily this morning, so, yes, a case, but no intriguing one, which would also explain why you refrained from telling me about it. How close am I?"

He started playing without so much as a second glance in my direction, quite effectively if not very subtly putting an end to our conversation. I was surprised, to say the least. Usually, my attempts at deduction where a constant source of amusement for Holmes, and he took great delight in enlightening me on my mistakes. But now he was completely engaged in his music, a slow haunting melody, rather depressing, no doubt one of his own. I was well aware that his choice of music usually reflected his mood, but I was quite taken aback by the sorrow of the piece. I knew by experience that it was no use to press him on the matter if he didn't wish to tell me. Therefore, I was content to listen and wait.

At dinner, our conversation was commonplace – surprisingly so, since Holmes loathed the commonplace with all his heart. After dinner, he finally lit a pipe, and sat staring into the crackling fire for a long time.

"Holmes?"

He looked at me with amusement. "Watson, you really do have the remarkable gift of silence."

"How close was I?"

His gaze travelled back to the fire. "There is no case."

"No case? But where then have you been?"

Holmes shrugged again and I knew he would not tell me. "It's of no importance."

"But I'm interested."

"So deduce it."

"I've tried."

"My dear Watson." He stretched his feet out towards the fire. "You really can do better than that."

"Surely not a woman, Holmes?!"

He chuckled. "No woman, Watson." Rising, he put down his pipe. "I'm going to bed now."

I'm afraid I quite gaped at him open-mouthed, but was ignored, and too soon I heard the key turn inside his bedroom. It wasn't common for him to lock himself in at night, as long as the door to the hallway was secured, but it was also unusual for him to be so mysterious. True, he did not share his thoughts on a case until he was absolutely sure, and he enjoyed dramatics, but never had he been so reluctant on every-day life. He hadn't even tried to hide his use of cocaine from me when we barely knew each other.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 2**

I went to bed somewhat troubled, but the next morning seemed so wonderful that soon I forgot my worries. The fog was nearly gone, and the chill had been driven from the house by the warm light of the spring sun.

Mrs Hudson had already served breakfast, for she knew I was regular in my habits as long as I wasn't off with Holmes. The table was laid for two, but Holmes's plate seemed untouched. "Is he off already?"

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "No, Doctor. He hasn't emerged yet."

That was quite extraordinary, yet I breakfasted heartily, expecting the bedroom door to open any minute. I had finished, however, before Holmes had stirred, and decided to knock, for I remembered well that he had locked his door. "Holmes?"

There was no answer.

"I'm going for a walk, it's a wonderful day. Would you care to join me?"

There still was no sound from within. So assuming he was asleep, I gathered my things and went on a solitary walk, which lasted for quite some time. Near Regents Park I met Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard who invited me to luncheon and confirmed that the city was calm at the moment, and that neither he nor his colleagues had consulted Holmes on any cases, and he hadn't heard of an investigation on Holmes's part either.

On my way back to Baker Street, which took me along Pall Mall, I met, to my surprise, Sherlock Holmes's brother, Mr Mycroft Holmes, who greeted me with all due warmth. He, too, had not seen his brother of late, and certainly not the day before, and was quite baffled when I told him that Sherlock had been sleeping late. "He is not ill, is he, Doctor?" With some amusement, Mycroft confessed that Sherlock had always been the earlier bird of the two, especially when he was after a worm. However, he did not seem really concerned. "It is nothing, Doctor. My brother has always had his mood swings. I'm sure you'll find him well out of bed when you return."

Still, I somewhat dreaded my return to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes's mood swings took the most violent nature when the fit was upon him, and he was easily irritated. Sometimes, I rather stayed out of his way. Mrs Hudson was remarkably long-suffering in that aspect.

Nevertheless, everything was quiet upon my return. Mrs Hudson greeted me warmly, and asked about the time for dinner, but I had to inform her that we would ring, for I did not yet know in what temper I would find Holmes.

There was no answer to my knocking at the sitting room door, so I entered cautiously. I found Holmes in his armchair by the fire – which struck me as curious, for it had been a warm and friendly day, and Holmes was not one for chills. He had drawn up his knees to his chest and was smoking his pipe, and evidently not the first one.

I opened the window to release the smoke he'd created, and sat, upon which he finally spared me a glance, and laid down his pipe. "Have you had a pleasant walk, Watson?"

"Certainly. I wish you would have accompanied me. I met your brother, and Lestrade."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Anything of interest?"

"Nothing. I enquired, however, as to your whereabouts yesterday."

Good heavens, what a shock he gave me! He was on his feet quicker that my eyes could follow, and shot one furious glare in my direction that would certainly have killed me if the idiom had been accurate.

"It's none of your business, Watson!"

"I was merely worried."

His features softened a little at my admission.

"Don't be so secretive about it. Just tell me."

"My dear Watson. We may have been fellow lodgers for quite some time, colleagues, for sure, and friends, even. But you really must not intrude yourself into my private affairs. If I thought you needed to know, I would have informed you. But since you have been unable to deduce it for yourself, I see no reason why I should tell you. It is clearly none of your business."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"It's not important, Watson."

"But you would tell me if it was?"

He smiled. "I would. Now, if you please excuse me..." He started for his bedroom, but I intercepted him.

"Surely you will dine with me?"

"I have quite lost my appetite, Watson. If you please step out of my way now."

A terrible suspicion rose in myself. No cases usually meant no stimulant for the extraordinary brain with which Holmes was endowed, thus producing the need for his 'artificial stimulant'. I wondered whether he was again prey to the hypodermic syringe that was a constant dread to his supreme powers. "Is it cocaine?"

"No. Look for yourself if you must, Doctor."

The 'Doctor' stung. He had ceased to use it sometime ago save when in jest, but now he deliberately deepened the gap that was always between us, but had closed in the course of years. Still, I took him at his word.

He followed me into his bedroom, stretching out on his bed, and watching me with a twinkle in his eyes that calmed my anger somewhat. To my surprise, I was unable to uncover either the syringe or the bottle in which he kept his seven percent solution. When I finally found the Moroccan case, it was buried below a pile of papers which had not been disturbed for ages.

"Have you satisfied your curiosity? Excellent. Please do close the door on your way out."

Stupefied, I took the syringe with me, and sat all evening pondering over the hypodermic in its satin bed, wondering what I was missing. I do not claim to really understand Sherlock Holmes, but after we had been acquainted for so long, I prided myself to know his every mood and habit, and his current behaviour remained a mystery to me. However, my medical instincts were aroused. Something was wrong.

The next morning, Holmes seemed as normal as he'd ever been. He was not in the best of moods, having found nothing of interest in mail or the morning papers, but he acknowledged my presence and replied to questions matter-of-factly, seeming much more relaxed. Had I not kept the syringe, I would have put a wager on the fact that he had used the cocaine, so sharp seemed his change of mood. But after all, Sherlock Holmes's moods were best described as mercurial.

"What are you planning for to-day?" I asked, keeping my tone as little suspicious as possible.

"Research, Watson." He nodded towards his chemical table, where a half-finished experiment waited for his attention. He had dropped everything for the last case. "Don't you want to go for a walk?"

"Not to-day." Truth be told, I was determined to keep an eye on him, which he no doubt knew, yet he nodded rather meekly.

As I picked up the papers he had scattered all over the floor and settled down to read, Holmes remained true to his word and retreated into the corner where his chemicals waited. Soon enough, the bunsen burner was lit, and Holmes was producing strangely coloured fumes. They were, however, not altogether malodorous, and I was content to tolerate some smoke, as long as the window was left ajar.

As I opened it, there was a violent draft, and numerous papers where blown about, covering our floor. Holmes just frowned and said in his calmest voice, the one he reserved for dull-witted clients and officials: "Close the window, Watson."

The damage was done, and I busied myself tidying up the mess I had created, coughing as the atmosphere grew dense with smoke. Among the papers, which I attempted to stack and place on the side-table, I discovered a blueish envelope without any address whatsoever, which I, therefore, opened. Inside were two tickets for a concert, paid tickets, in fact, and, therefore, they had not been a present of an overly thankful client. Holmes despised such presents, as he insisted upon a firm scale of payment, save when he omitted it altogether. He liked to choose his own free time activities, and although he was not averse to praise, he despised people who believed money could settle everything.

I studied the tickets intently. They were for a violin concert, an interpretation of one of Holmes's favourite composers, but the date was the day before, when, as far as I knew, Holmes had never budged from our rooms. "Holmes?"

He looked up at my face, and down at the tickets in my hand, setting down the pipette he had been working with.

"What are these?"

"Tickets for a concert, as you no doubt have read by now."

"Certainly. But the concert was yesterday. You obviously bought the tickets, and expensive ones at that, therefore you had in mind to attend it with a companion, presumably myself. However, you have not set foot outside these rooms yesterday, and did not even mention it."

He smiled, which irritated me slightly – usually, he would listen to my meagre attempts at his art with indifference and calm patience, and never betray any emotion beforehand. I would have asked why he had changed his habits, but I was too caught up in the process of interference and deduction to stop now.

"Thus, you either forgot, which, I think, is not very likely. The tickets were among the day before yesterday's papers, so even if you had, you would have noticed them. Else you never intended to go, for whatever reason, or you changed your mind only on short notice. To my knowledge, nothing has occurred here yesterday, has it?"

He gave a brief shake of his head and blew out his bunsen-burner, the experiment apparently over. "You are quite correct."

"How so?"

Holmes took the tickets from my hands, musing over them with something akin to remorse in his expression. "I had intended to attend the concert, in your company, if you had joined me, as you deduced; and I had not forgotten."

"So you changed your mind? May I ask why? It's certainly not a worm."

"A worm, Watson?" Amusement lit up in his eyes.

"Case! No case, or you would have told me of it by now."

"Precisely. There is no case." He rose, placing the tickets on a side table. "No, Watson, I doubt I would take a case at present, even if one presented itself. Unless, of course, it offered certain outré features – grotesque. We have spoken about that word?"

Looking back, I had noticed that his light tone changed into a pressed whisper, but at that time it took me entirely off guard when suddenly- "Good heavens, Holmes! Mrs Hudson!"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 3**

One of those thin, elegant hands had shot to his forehead, which was creased with a frown, and then, without a sound, he dropped down right where he stood in a dead faint, nearly knocking over the chemical table in progress. He still lay unmoving after I had assured myself that he was still breathing and Mrs Hudson burst into the room, dishevelled and obviously startled by my outcry. "Doctor! What happened!"

My poor friend's pulse was rapid, and he was burning up with fever. I wondered why I had not noticed the signs before, until I discovered the remnant of rouge on my fingertips. Holmes had taken precautions – he had not wanted me to know, well aware that when it came to deducing sickness, I was his equal at the very least. My instincts had not let me down.

"He fainted, Mrs Hudson, and is running a temperature. Give me a hand, please – he can't lie on the floor."

With her aid, we placed him on the sofa, stuffing a blanket around his thin form and a pillow under his head. After that, our good landlady hurried off to fetch a bowl of hot chicken soup and a cold, wet towel. She had barely left when Holmes sat up with a violent start, but with a suppressed groan immediately fell back into the pillow. I placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're ill. Stay where you are."

Holmes closed his eyes, the exhaustion now plainly displayed on his face.

"And you have been ill since at least yesterday, there we have the reason why you did not attend the concert. Holmes, for heaven's sake, you should have told me! I may only be a general practitioner, but I trust I can handle a cold.

"I did not want you to know," he said in a weak voice quite unlike his own.

"Why not?"

"You would have fussed, and Mrs Hudson would have fussed, and yet, you would have been unable to do anything, and end up telling me I needed rest, which is exactly what I have tried to achieve."

"It does not work that way, Holmes. You should have stayed in bed. And while it is true that I am unable to cure you, I could at least have treated the symptoms. Your fever is not spiking, and yet... Good God, you are shivering!"

I grasped another, thicker blanket and wrapped it around him, overriding his feeble protests. His personality demanded respect and obedience, but when it came to sickness, we were in my area of expertise, and I felt entitled to take charge, for Holmes had an obvious lack of concern for his own health.

Holmes had ceased his protests and closed his eyes again, curled up on the sofa and facing away from me, his face almost hidden below the blanket. He was still shivering violently.

I lowered the blinds and intercepted Mrs Hudson in the hallway, taking both the soup and the cloth, and sent her away with some reassuring words. When I returned to his side, Holmes regarded me with dully shining, wet eyes that spoke of fever all too clearly.

"Hot soup from Mrs Hudson. Try a spoon."

He shook his head. "I'd rather not, Watson. Just leave me alone."

I did so, if it was only for a trip to the next post office to dispatch a telegram to Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's elder brother would not come round, of course, but he still deserved to know that Holmes was ill, more so since I remembered vaguely that Holmes had told me they were to meet for lunch the week to come. Sherlock would not keep this appointment if I had any say in it.

Upon my return, Holmes was still huddled up on the sofa, and again shivering, but apparently also quite asleep. I did not dare disturb him, and thus settled down in an armchair opposite, where I could keep an eye on him. His sleep, if it was sleep at all, was very light. He did not toss or turn, but his eyelids never really closed, his form never really relaxed. After some time he stopped shivering, and I hurried to his side once again. He moaned as I placed the back of my hand against his pale forehead to check for fever. It was still hot, and now his cheeks, too, where tinted reddish. "Holmes? Holmes, do you hear me?" For some time, there was no response, and I assumed he had drifted off to his feverish slumber once again. Neither cold nor influenza were uncommon in this time of year, and I was not much worried, although it had to be a violent form if it penetrate the usual iron constitution of my friend. I was right, thankfully, but it were two strenuous weeks until Holmes finally recovered.

I yelped as with one rapid movement Holmes closed his hand around my wrist, and with a failing voice whispered something that did not quite reach my ears. "What was that, Holmes?"

Before he could answer, he was cut off by a violent row of coughs, during which his grip tightened like a vice, and after which he shivered so badly that his teeth clattered. He was soaked in sweat.

"Should I get you to bed?"

He shook his head ever so slightly. "No, comfortable here." Peering up at me through half-closed lids, he licked his lips. "Water."

"Water? Certainly." I turned to walk away, but he would not let me go. "Holmes, the water is over there on the table. I can't reach it from here."

His grip loosened, and then his hand fell back on the sofa. "Don't leave me."

I knew that words spoken in sickness, especially fever, could not be taken for face-value, but still I was deeply touched by his whispered words. "I'm not leaving, old fellow. The water is just over there. Here, I shall pour you a glass."

I had just handed it to him when Mrs Hudson's agitated voice sounded below. Holmes's groan showed that he had heard also. His condition was declining quickly, and the last he needed was a disturbance of the rest his body had forced upon him. To my relief, it were only Mrs Hudson's steps that approached our rooms. "Doctor?"

I left Holmes's side for a moment to join her in a whispered conversation by the door. "What is it, Mrs Hudson?"

"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard to see Mr Holmes. He has gone now, but I'm sure he will return."

"Most certainly. When he returns, tell him we have gone on a holiday and you do not know when we will return. Holmes desperately needs rest."

"Of course, Doctor. Do ring if you need anything."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." I closed the door behind her and was back at Holmes's side for another round of coughs, during which the emptied glass fell to the floor, and which left an expression of utter exhaustion on his face the likes of which I had only seen once, after he had pushed himself to a complete breakdown on a lengthy case in France. I rubbed his back to ease some of the tension, and he slowly regained his breath.

"Who was that?"

"You need to rest, Holmes."

He smiled weakly. "I thought so."

"How bad was it yesterday?"

"Better."

"Just hang on. It will be over in a week."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 4**

Rather to my surprise, Lestrade did not only return in the afternoon, but again the following morning, although Mrs Hudson had followed my instructions to the letter. Reading annoyance in Holmes's exhausted, haggard features – he had been struggling to sleep, but the coughs kept waking him up – I decided to go down and intercept the inspector, else he would jangle our doorbell again in the evening.

It had been hard enough to get Holmes to rest, and I would not allow any case to intrude upon his convalescence. He was too weak to rise, could swallow next to nothing, save one or two sips of tea, and was, aside from his cough, still plagued by shivering. Still, if he discovered anything to occupy his mind, he would promptly deny himself rest. I had even caught him analysing myself, or rather my unspoken thoughts. When he voiced his deductions I had not had the heart to tell him that, in part, they had been erroneous. His state was pitiful. The fever affected his mind, and in sleep, he would almost slip down to delirium. At night, this condition had kept me at his side; whenever he awoke enough to recognise his surroundings, he begged me not to leave him.

I myself felt ill with worry and had only forced down a few bites of my breakfast. All I could do was cool Holmes's forehead with wet cloths and wrap him in blankets when he was cold again, hoping it would soon pass. He had felt a little better in the morning, but was rapidly getting worse again with every minute he was declined his much-needed rest.

Therefore I descended the stairs to face Inspector Lestrade. The little man seemed to be in a considerable state of agitation, but he straightened out as he spotted me, assuming an air of professionalism. "Ah, good morning, Doctor. I take it you are back from your trip?" It was evident that he had not believed our ruse for a moment. "Is Mr Holmes there, too?"

"Yes, but he doesn't wish to be disturbed – under no circumstances, I'm sorry. I must ask you to leave." I would not allow any cases – in his current state of mind, he could easily bring an innocent to the gallows by a faulty line of deduction.

"It's not I who wants to disturb you. Haven't you read your post?"

"Not yet." I had been far to busy tending Holmes to notice the growing pile of letters. Besides, it was likely to be his post anyway.

Our conversation was cut short by an incredibly loud cry of "Watson!", which I instantly recognised as the voice of my dear friend, if rough from coughing, and started to hurry up the stairs at the very instant another cry was cut short abruptly.

Lestrade was on my heels, and I heard him cock his service revolver as we dashed into the sitting room. It was blazing hot; I had been forced to keep a fire burning to keep Holmes comfortable, but now there was a strong draught through the window which had somehow been opened; it was only later that I discovered the hole that had been cut into it. The blankets on the sofa had been ignited and where building up to a flaring fire, but my main concern was for Holmes – he was nowhere to be seen.

Lestrade hurried for the water carafe to extinguish the flames, and I called in horror for my friend. He was not in the sitting room, that much was clear. A weak groan from his own bedroom brought me to the door, where I spotted him. He had collapsed against the bed, only semi-conscious, bound and gagged, both of which had been done in a hurry and without much consideration for the victim. Intruders, then, and violent ones, judging from the bruise on Holmes's forehead where a fierce seemed to have been dealt to him, and the red scratch along his bare forearm.

Guilt washed over me as he continued to lie limp against me after I had released him. I was well aware that the intruders would not have found him so vulnerable a victim had he not been ill, and alone. Providence had at least been kind enough to enable him to cry out, bringing me to his aid.

With the help of Lestrade, who had single-handed stopped the fire in its waking, I succeeded in lifting Holmes onto his bed, where he lay unresponsive until after I had cleaned the cut on his forehead with alcohol – it was quite minor, no need for a bandage – and tried to pour some water down his throat, for he was too weak for brandy. Lestrade had left again to make sure that the fire was now truly confined to the fireplace.

I called Holmes's name softly as he stirred, and he blinked, although it took a considerable time until his disorientation lessened and his eyes locked onto mine, gleaming with recognition. "Watson." Somehow, my name sounded like a question, and I quickly took his hand in mine to reassure him.

"Yes, it's me. You are safe. Lestrade is here, too. Do you recall what has happened?"

Something like professional interest entered his eyes, and he returned my grip on his hand. "Dimly." Upon that, his voice broke into a series of coughs, during which he curled in misery, and I found myself patting his shoulder awkwardly, although I knew well that usually Holmes despised such a display of concern, especially if it was directed at him. Yet the situation was far from normal, and I found him calming under my touch. Throughout our association, he seldom spoke about the kind of friendship in which we were joined, and sometimes even showed a shocking disregard for what I might feel, but it were little moment just as this when I realised how deep his trust in me was – only in my presence, and maybe that of his brother, he allowed himself to let down his guard, and yet by simply being there I was a reassurance in those darker moments.

"They came through the window, Watson," he said after he had regained his breath. "I heard the cutter, but I suppose I thought I'd imagined it. Then I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke I found myself already bound – I cried out, but was hit with something hard." His hand travelled up to the side of his face, carefully probing the injured area until I stopped him. "That's all I remember. I told you not to leave me." That said, his eyelids flickered close, and he drifted off again into a feverish sleep.

I let go of his hand, and covered him up with a blanket. "It's all right, old fellow. Rest."

Inspector Lestrade appeared at the door, carrying some fresh blankets which he deposited on the end of the bed, where it was not occupied by Holmes's feet. "Mrs Hudson gave me those. The others are mostly ruined, but the fire's out."

"Thank you, Inspector."

He nodded and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. "How's he?"

I, too, kept my voice low. "He will be all right. What does this all mean?"

Lestrade pulled an envelope out of his jacket and handed it to me. From the large hole in it, I could tell that it was one of those that had joined the others under the jackknife on the mantelpiece in the last days. It was addressed to 'Mr Sherlock Holmes, esquire' in single letters which had been cut out from a book or newspaper. The letter inside was composed in the same fashion, very brief and disturbing.

Mr Holmes, (it ran) your time is over.

Although the axiom of one's blood running cold is, from a medical standpoint, utter nonsense, I could swear to it that it is exactly what happened to me at that moment. "A threat?"

"Obviously," said Lestrade, who had read over my shoulder, and now dug another piece of paper from his pockets. "Take a look at this. It arrived at Scotland Yard yesterday morning."

It was another letter, or rather note, similar to the first, and with an equally worrying content. It said:

You soon will lose your unofficial aid.

"I thought of Mr Holmes and came here immediately, but your landlady would not let me enter."

"Holmes has been ill. I did not want him to take a case."

"Of course."

I turned over the note in my hand, shaken to the core. Since the Moriarty business, Holmes's life had never been threatened outright again, and so enormously. The blow he'd received could easily have killed him, and the fire surely would have, had I been absent for a longer time. The question remained what the criminals had intended to achieve by it. True, many a criminal held a grudge against Holmes, and others would pay large sums to see him removed, but why not use a knife or bullet when they had already had him bound and in their hands? It was also curious that they should arrive at the very moment when Holmes was alone and ill, and thus incapacitated.

"So what do you make of it, Inspector? An attempted murder, abduction, robbery?"

He gave a dry chuckle. "It'd be a dumb criminal indeed to attempt and rob Sherlock Holmes. They had enough time to kill him, so they maybe were interrupted at abducting. Although these notes point against that, surely. I found this." He handed me a broken pipe. "I would assume it was used to deal that blow."

The bruise on Holmes's forehead was slowly darkening, and it seemed to me I could feel the painful throbbing it had to emit. I would need to cool it. Lestrade seemed to have followed my train of thoughts, for he handed me a towel which had been dipped in cold water. I pressed it against the bruise, as gently as I could without ruining the effect.

"It's quite a puzzle, all right." Lestrade tucked away his handkerchief. "It must be investigated carefully. Could you wake Mr Holmes, Doctor?"

"Definitely not, Inspector. I know he is your only witness, but he needs to rest, now more than ever. I will wire you when he is fit enough for interrogation."

"Very well. Do keep those notes, and show them to him. I think we could use his help. I would, however, advise that you move to a friend's place, or to a hotel, for some time."

It was a wise piece of advise, but I knew that I could not remove Holmes from the familiar surroundings of Baker Street in his current condition. It would have been irresponsible from a medical point of view.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 5**

Holmes awoke some time after Inspector Lestrade had left, shortly after I had placed hot bricks wrapped in towels by his feet to keep him warm. I was lowering the blinds against the bright sunlight when he stirred, which brought me back to his side.

"Are you fit enough to discuss matters, old fellow?"

"Watson?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any change?"

"You don't need money, dear fellow. How are you feeling?" Truth be told, there was no need to ask that question. He was obviously not himself, and not perfectly lucid, as I would have expected in face of his injury on top of his illness.

"It's a pity. It would have looked beautiful in the moonlight."

"Holmes, it's daytime." But he was already asleep again.

I pondered the next hours over the notes, trying to apply Holmes's methods, but it was to no avail. My thoughts were running in circles, and yet I could not shake the feeling of some underlying danger that was yet to descend upon us, which made me wish I could have followed Lestrade's advice immediately. But Holmes remained unconscious rather than asleep, and he was suffering from a severe concussion, which would only add to his disorientation. The bruise had swollen enormously, and only a cold compress kept it from closing his left eye. After lunchtime, I had quite made up my mind that no matter how grave his condition, we could not stay. The broken window presented an easy entrance, and I found that I would be unable to stay awake much longer for safe-guarding. I shook Holmes gently by the shoulders, placing my candle on the table beside him.

He woke quickly, but his eyes closed again with a sigh – obviously, the bruise pained him. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid, Holmes, we have to leave Baker Street."

He stared at me, surprised. "Why? Surely not because of this petty attack."

"Hardly petty, Holmes! You could have died, you do realise that?"

"Hm."

"But no, it's not that. The business is quite grotesque, and I think we should take Lestrade's advice. Your life is in danger." I read out the two notes to him, wondering halfway through whether he had fallen asleep, for he lay as limp as one would expect only in sleep, but from time to time, his eyes would flicker open and fix on my face with an effort. "Well, what do you think?"

He closed his hand around mine. "Good old Watson. I think you are both right. I must recover my health before any steps can be taken."

"You need rest and quiet."

"Then we must contact brother Mycroft."

The idea was excellent, of course. The elder Holmes was probably the one person in London that could be trusted without question. Furthermore, he had, as Holmes told me, quite roomy lodgings in Pall Mall, one of the busiest streets of London, making it twice as hard for any intruders. And Mycroft had helped us once already, in transferring myself safely to the train during our flight from Moriarty.

"I'll send Mrs Hudson."

"Yes. A telegram is too dangerous." Holmes moved his head on the pillow, but, with a wince, ceased the movement immediately. "A headache, nothing more," he said in answer to my worried expression.

"Of course. I will call a four-wheeler. Can you manage to dress without my aid?"

I left him for a moment to send off Mrs Hudson with the note to Mycroft, and to engage a carriage which would take us to Pall Mall. When I hurried upstairs, Holmes was already dressed, and bending over a bowl of cold water to clean his face. His features were set rigid and pale even for his light complexion, but he smiled shakily at me as I entered. "Well, Watson? I see you are surprised that I can manage easily."

"In fact, I am."

"Dear fellow, you noticed nothing for two days. One should think I can keep up pretences until we reach my brother's lodgings. Besides, it's only the three steps into the carriage and the three out I will have to manage without your aid."

"Are you ready, then?"

Holmes shrugged into his coat. "Let's go."

The seventeen stairs to our rooms presented him with considerable difficulty, for his legs were too shaky to manage them alone, and it required all my patience and nearly all of his strength to get us downstairs, but after some moments of catching his breath, he straightened. "You'll see to our luggage, Watson?"

"Yes. Go ahead, I will just get it and join you in the carriage." We both had a bag prepared for emergencies, and I was about to carry them out into the hallway when through the broken window I heard the wheeze of a lash and the rattling of a horse's hooves. I hurried to the windows, finding to my horror that the carriage which was occupied by Holmes drove away at full speed. There was no use in pursuing it, and deep in my heart I knew that the hope that he had only started without me was futile. Still, I called at his brother's lodgings after dispatching a telegram to Scotland Yard and leaving a note to Mrs Hudson, who had not yet returned.

To my surprise, Mycroft Holmes, though not as emotionless as his younger sibling, had quite shed his detached attitude. His face was red with agitation as he paced his sitting room, but in his eyes I could see a deep worry which I shared with all my heart. "I have had quite enough of this! First this Moriarty, and three years of imposing in front of anybody, playing the grieving brother all for my younger sibling, and now this. If I had not known how much Sherlock loathes the quiet work in a government department, and that only his line of work gives him a legal opportunity to use his powers, I would have put a stop to it after his 'hiatus'."

"What are we to do?"

"Well, you have sent a note to Scotland Yard."

"Of course."

He pierced me with an iron gaze. "Then there's nothing further we can do, save perhaps enquire after the cab, but I trust it has disappeared from the face of this earth by now."

However, it proved to be unnecessary. Scotland Yard, or more specifically, Inspector Lestrade, had started a large-scale search of the city immediately at the arrival of my note. The inspector himself sat with me in his bureau, but I could hardly remain calm. My all-too-active imagination conjured up horrible pictures, and I feared the state Holmes would be in when he was returned to me. The possibility that he had driven off by his own free will I had discounted already. Despite what Holmes had done in the past, he was in no condition to manage without my aid, and he would not leave me uninformed.

Both Lestrade's relief and mine were palatable when a young constable burst into the room, red-faced and sweating. "Inspector, Doctor."

"What is it, constable?" asked Lestrade, who had jumped to his feet.

"We have found him. He has requested to be taken to Pall Mall 48, his brother's rooms, I understood. We sent a surgeon to look after him."

"Good heavens, a surgeon," I cried.

"He's alive, Doctor. I'd say that's something. How is he?"

"In a bad shape, sir. Pretty much beaten up, and out of his mind most of the time."

"I'm going to see him immediately."

"Of course, Doctor."

Upon my return to Pall Mall, I ran into the surgeon who was just about to depart. "Ah, Dr Watson, I presume."

"Quite so."

"Golden, Matthew, it's a pleasure, Doctor."

"The pleasure surely must be mine," I answered, somewhat distracted by the low voices from the first floor, one of which was surely Mycroft's. "How is Holmes?"

Golden's features became dark indeed. "His life is not in danger at the moment, but his condition is serious. I understand he's been ill before this happened? Yes, well, he's very weak and stress must be avoided at all costs. The concussion is severe, and has caused nausea. I would advise you to administer morphine as soon as possible. He would not allow me to do it, heaven knows why."

"Thank you, Dr Golden," said Mycroft Holmes, coming down the stairs, and dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. "Watson, I must go out now. An urgent summons from Whitehall. The small sitting room on the left hand side and the adjoining bedroom have been turned into a sickroom. It is all at your disposal. Your luggage awaits you there."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 6**

I hurried up the stairs and entered the room without preamble, knowing that Holmes was not likely to answer. The shutters were down in both rooms, and the gas lit in the sitting room, whereas the bedroom lay in almost complete darkness. I lit a candle and approached the bed. "Holmes?" I heard his breathing, irregular and pained, and when the light of my candle hit his face, he looked away, but that could not hide the expression of pain from me, who was so accustomed to his features. The mattress was very soft, and he sank deeply into it, a blanket drawn up to his chest, but his hands where resting on top of it, trembling slightly. He looked quite fearful, and I was sure that under the dressing gown he was wearing – apparently his brother's, for it was too large for him – more bruises were hidden than those I could see at the edges, where his skin lay bare. There was an ugly red stripe on his throat which could not quite be covered by the bandage. His upper lip was split, and the old bruise on his forehead had worsened, remains of blood still visible, and his eye now quite truly swollen shut. His leg, while covered by a blanket, was propped up on a cushion, and thus injured, too. He was lying still, and yet an enormous tension was radiating from him, as if he would rather squirm in agony.

"Holmes?" I sat down at his side, carefully as not to disturb him, and placed the candle on the floor, where the light would not be in his eyes, before I rummaged through my medical bag in search of a syringe and a bottle of morphine. "Are you awake?"

"Is it you, Watson?"

"Yes, old fellow." I touched his hand softly. "I'm going to inject morphine now. It will help you sleep."

"Wait."

"What is it? Holmes, you are in pain. You must rest. I only want to help."

"Don't you think-" He gasped for air. "Don't you think it will happen again? When they discover they did not succeed..." Holmes was hit by an already familiar bout of coughing, and I decided to take his temperature, only to find that his fever had spiked, and that he would probably spent a night of delirium, no longer confined to nightmares. He did not attempt to speak again, exhausted, and did not object as I took his hand in mine.

"They don't know where you are for now, Holmes. You get better first, and then we clear the matter up, how does that sound? Or do you know who they are?"

"No, Watson. Say, Watson?" His voice was terribly feeble.

"Yes, Holmes."

"You have to return to Baker Street."

"I can't possibly leave you in such a state!"

"My brother will take care of me. Don't you think they will be watching you? They have to assume I'm in Baker Street when I'm really elsewhere. Tell Mrs Hudson to keep out of the way, and have your revolver at hand. And stay there, or you will lead them here. Also tell the papers I'm dying."

"Holmes!"

"We need time." He tensed, a suppressed groan escaping him.

"That's it. I'm injecting the morphine now. You have no need to remain lucid now."

He didn't succeed in pulling his arm away, although he certainly tried. "You have to do it, Watson, if you care for me at all."

"How can you possibly doubt that? I am your friend, Holmes, you know that."

He looked at me through barely opened eyes. "Then do as I ask. If you must, enter through the front door and leave through the back window. But no one must see you, do you understand?"

"Yes, Holmes. Go to sleep now. I shall be back shortly."

I carried out his instructions to the letter, and when I returned to his brother's lodgings in the simple disguise of a violinist, which would have made Holmes sneer. He was awake already, and waiting, but his eyes were blank, and he murmured unintelligible words.

"Holmes? Holmes, do you hear me?"

He shifted uncomfortably, and just as I thought my efforts to rouse him were futile, he trapped my hand in a vice-like grip. "Watson? Is it you? I thought you had gone to Baker Street. You must..."

"I know. I have been to Baker Street. I've just come back – I brought your violin." I twitched a string of the instrument, and some of the strain left his features.

"It's a pity you don't play, my dear Watson."

"Just rest."

"It's cold."

"I will light a fire."

"No! No, you must not leave me, I... don't leave."

"Very well. I will not."

"How would I know? I can hardly see, much less concentrate. I'm wandering, Watson, even when I'm not asleep – Watson? Are you listening? Are you still there?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm here. You're holding my hand."

"Ah, of course." His fingers moved a little, allowing the blood to rush back into my limb. "Strange how it affects me."

"Your health has broken down completely, Holmes. These ruffians! If I could only lay hands on them!"

"No! Watson, they are dangerous. You mustn't get in their way, or you will be hurt."

"But who are they?"

"I don't know." Again, he shifted, again, the movement ceased in the middle. "Watson, do something. Make it stop."

"What is it?"

"My head is spinning, I can't think. Watson, where are we?"

"Your brother's lodgings, Holmes. Try to concentrate."

"I feel sick."

"I know. Who were they, Holmes? I say, are you still with me?"

He had sunken back limply into the pillows, his hand almost losing its grip around my wrist.

"They were hired, Watson, by a person far more dangerous than all of them. This person we must find. But not now. I'm exhausted. Please, Watson, turn off your candle, and light the fire, and let me have some rest."

"You will. Try to sleep. You haven't slept properly in days."

"Promise you won't leave."

"I promise."

He relinquished his hold, and was asleep already as I placed his hand back on the bed. I knew him to be badly hurt, although he would not admit the true extent of his injuries even to me. Vulnerability did not sit well with him, and he would rather push himself to complete breakdown than admit defeat, and now he still retained this mentality, even though he was clearly past the point of breakdown. It was a mere coincidence that he was still alive. Or was it? I wondered who would wish to do this to Holmes, and not only send warnings to us, but to Scotland Yard as well, as if he wanted to see his plans fail, or prove that he would succeed nevertheless. If so, the previous attempts on Holmes's life had been naught but warnings, and the intensity was increasing. Possibly the illness had not been natural after all...

The night, however, passed without disturbance, save the return of Mycroft Holmes, whose steps I heard on the stairs but who did not intrude upon us. I had carried a chair to Holmes's bedside, in which at some time I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke, it was broad daylight, as far as I could tell by the streak of light breaking through the gap in the shutters. They caressed Holmes's face, adding all the more to his pallor. As I listened to the noise of Pall Mall outside, I wished for the quiet of our own rooms, but it was impossible to return there. The threat of yet another attempt simply was too great.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 7**

Holmes slept deeply through my medical ministrations, leaving a pleasant impression on me when I descended to fetch some breakfast for both of us. To my surprise, I met Inspector Lestrade in the hallway, who had just been admitted by Mycroft's landlady. "Doctor, how is he?"

"As well as one would expect after so murderous an attempt. What is the matter, Inspector?"

"I'm afraid we have received another warning. It's like the others, but see for yourself." He handed me a small envelope. "What do you make of it?"

I carefully scanned the note before pocketing it. It said:

London will be shattered.

Your unofficial agent shall die in agony.

You can do nothing.

"I don't understand." Although Holmes was well known and respected in London, it did not seem as if his demise was referred to as a crushing blow, merely an unavoidable side effect. A way to a higher purpose, even. It would certainly bring any investigations on his part to an end.

"I had hoped Mr Holmes might be able to shed some light on the matter," said Lestrade.

"He must rest, Lestrade. He is badly hurt."

"Well, you will approach him if he is fit enough."

"I will. Good-day, Inspector."

When I returned to the bedroom, Holmes was awake and looking at me with one eye open. "Who was downstairs?"

"Lestrade. He wanted to know how you were."

Holmes chuckled softly. "You really are a deplorable liar, Watson. I would assume there is another warning note, concealed at present in your watch pocket." His eye closed, and he huddled deeper into the blankets. "You placed your hand on it, dear fellow."

"Of course! How very simple. Well, you are right. It is a warning, but to Scotland Yard only." I read it out to him, upon which I detected a shadow of a frown on his face. "I assume they will send none to us, since you are clear out of the way, and if one believes the sight of you, at death's door."

"Very flattering, Watson." He was cut short by his teeth clattering together when the shivering fits returned. He tried to conceal it at first by hiding his trembling hands below the coverlet, but soon his whole body shook, and he turned away from me until it was over, welcoming neither my pity nor my help, so I offered none until he rolled again to his back, now paler than ever.

I pulled the blanket up to his chin in an effort to keep him warm, and started to prepare another dose of morphine when he softly called my name. There was an urgency in his voice that did not allow me to ignore it. "You need to rest, Holmes."

"I know, this confounded cold. Watson – it's very bad business, very bad, and dangerous."

"I'd say."

"I only wanted to tell you to be careful."

"We shall leave this case in the hands of the official police."

"We are forced to, but I fear London will pay bitterly for it."

"Holmes!"

"I do not belittle their efforts, Watson, and I am most grateful that they have found me, but I am afraid that our own actions have not helped matters."

"How so?"

"It seems they intended to get me out of the way all along, and only to plan something worse. In giving the impression that I was unable to act we have signalled them that they can act freely."

"Good heavens! But you are unable to act."

"Quite so," he answered, gravely. "Now they will strike soon. Maybe we have just enough time to prevent it. But mind you, there is a considerable risk involved. Well, well, maybe we can just undo this blunder. I want you to return to Baker Street, and tell the papers that I have sufficiently recovered to be dining at Marley's today."

"Marley's?"

"A little restaurant, Watson, just beside the Diogenes Club."

"But you cannot possibly intend to leave your bed! I will not permit it, it is foolhardy to say the least."

"I had no intention of going out, my dear friend. However, you will, and you will take Mycroft's page with you. He's a simple fellow, but thoroughly trustworthy, and with a little disguise looks just like me."

"Ingenious."

"No, I'm afraid I cannot agree with you," he said with a frown. "It is a bad hoax, and a dangerous one. Watson, I insist that you go armed, and take good care of the lad."

"I will."

"Of course." He settled back into the pillows. "You should go now."

"Do you wish me to inject another dose of morphine, Holmes?" I asked, holding up the syringe. He did look as if he was in sore need of pain relief, but I would not force it upon him. However, evidently the pain was bad enough to make Holmes swallow his pride.

"It would be most welcome, Watson."

I left Holmes asleep under the influence of the small dose of the drug I had given him, and proceeded to carry out his orders to the letter.

In fact, I spent a relaxing and rather uneventful evening with the page by the name of James. Outwardly he may have looked like my dear friend, but he proved a less trying and quite charming companion, certainly more so than the famous consulting detective he was impersonating. He had an uncompromising friendliness about him, and though his conversation was rather commonplace and funny, I was able to detect a wit in the sparkle of his expressive eyes that reminded me of the Baker Street Irregulars, the street urchins Holmes had taken under his wing. And yet I departed from him as he strolled down the street to spend the evening with his master at the club wondering how any of the Holmes brothers had become acquainted with him, for he had not seemed special at all.

I, with a journey to Baker Street to deceive our enemies, made my way back to Mycroft Holmes's lodgings. To my surprise, there was a police carriage waiting outside Pall Mall 48, and I quickened my steps, fearing the worst. The constable at the door waved me through quickly, and I hurried upwards, taking two steps at a time. Needless to say, that the sight which presented itself as I burst into the sitting room shook me to the core.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 8**

"Keep out of the way, Doctor," cried Inspector Lestrade, shooting me but a fleeting sideway glance, without lowering the gun for one moment. "Stay where you are."

"What in heaven's name is going on here?"

At the other end of the gun stood my good friend, deathly pale. He was close to the fireplace, wearing his own dressing gown over his pyjamas and relying heavily on a nearby armchair for support. How he could remain upright was beyond me.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Inspector? Don't you see that the poor man is going to faint? I'm a doctor!"

"Yes, and you carry a gun in your pocket. I must insist."

"It's quite all right, Watson," said Holmes with a weak smile, his voice low but steady. "Why don't you tell Watson why you honour us with your visit, Inspector? I will just sit down on this armchair in the meantime..."

"No!" exclaimed Lestrade. His voice had risen to an unnatural pitch. "I know your tricks, Mr Holmes. You will stay where you are, or I will shoot."

"There's no need for that!" I threw down my overcoat and revolver and rushed to Holmes's side just in time to catch him as he collapsed, and eased him into a chair. For a moment, he lay limp, breathing heavily, but soon enough life returned to him and he squeezed my hand, but I had no mind to be tolerant at the moment. Holmes explicitly had been told to avoid exertion and I would not allow his rest to be interrupted by a clearly deranged inspector. "What in heaven's name are you thinking, Lestrade? Holmes is very sick, as you well know, and should be in bed, resting, and now you bustle in and point your gun at him!"

Lestrade finally lowered the weapon a fraction, but it remained cocked. "I'm sorry, Doctor. But I must do my duty, whether I like it or not."

"What do you mean by that?"

Holmes plucked at my sleeve. "Lestrade has come to arrest me for the wilful murder of a corporal Nathaniel Smith, of whom I have never heard before."

"Of course you haven't," said Lestrade, pulling handcuffs out of his pocket, his gun again pointing at both of us. "I am sorry, Mr Holmes, but you must see that the evidence is damning. You could escape a capital sentence by a full confession – I'm sure you had your reasons for the deed. We could take some points into consideration."

"Lestrade." My friend flashed the inspector a quicksilver grin. "If I had done the deed, and I assure you I have not, I would not expect to be treated differently than any other criminal, or I would be very disappointed of the workings of British law. However, if you wish to 'take points into consideration' I would recommend very carefully to you attention, Inspector, the fact that I was neither fit nor willing to leave these rooms all day, as Watson will no doubt tell you, and that I have not heard of this corporal – Smith, was it? I do not know the man, and the name suggests nothing to my mind, and, as you know, I have a photographic memory. I would be pleased to help you clear the matter up, but I am afraid it is impossible as long as you are pointing the gun at us. You have not told me anything, Inspector."

I felt Holmes's hand grow slack in mine, and his eyelids fluttered downwards from the exhaustion of his speech. "He is in no shape to wander about, Lestrade." I collected a blanket from a pile of them which had been stacked on the sofa, and wrapped it around Holmes's quivering shoulders. His frame struck me as being very thin, almost fragile. "He could not have killed your corporal, even if he wished to, which is ridiculous. I have not left his side for more than two hours, and I am sure that he has slept through most of them, since I had administered morphine before leaving. What are you doing out of bed, anyway?" This last question I, of course, addressed to Holmes.

Holmes tucked at the blanket, looking miserable. "The fire, Watson. It had gone out, and I was getting cold."

"Yes, of course." I coaxed the flames to life again with a piece of wood that Holmes had dropped on the hearthrug, and watched Holmes relax slightly.

Lestrade had stood by wearily, but now he approached and cleared his throat.

Holmes did not attempt to open his eyes. "What do you want to do now, Inspector?"

"I'm afraid you will have to accompany me to the Yard, Mr Holmes. I hereby arrest you for the wilful murder of corporal Nathaniel Smith. The doctor may come with us, of course, and I shall see that we find a cell suitable for a sick man. Believe me if I say, Mr Holmes, I do hope that we are mistaken."

"So do I, Lestrade." My friend rose with an effort, the blanket sliding from his shoulders. The inspector followed him to the door of the bedroom as Holmes changed quickly without undressing first, pulling his shirt, trousers and jacket right over the pyjamas, and then remained perfectly still as the inspector rather awkwardly fastened his hands behind his back, clearly jostling a great many minor injuries, if Holmes's expression was any indication.

"I appreciate your not resisting."

Holmes snorted. "Save your pity, Lestrade. Now, Watson." He turned to me, ignoring the restraining hand that came to rest upon his arm. "I want you to stay here and inform Mycroft of what has transpired. If anyone can clear the matter up, it is he." His eyes pleaded me to be cautious, and his expression softened a little when I nodded. "Then you may come."

I watched at the window as the two men stepped out the front door, and with the constable in tow climbed into the carriage. I had the feeling that Holmes was meeting my eyes as he paused for a moment on the footplate, but in the darkness it was hard to tell, and soon the vehicle rattled away.

I waited half-an-hour for Mycroft Holmes's return, and as it became evident that he would not appear, I crossed the street and burst the news upon him in the Strangers' Room of the Diogenes Club. His first reaction was very human, and one of deep shock, but he regained his composure very quickly and agreed to come to Scotland Yard first thing in the morning.

I, however, could not possibly muster the patience to wait until then.

Lestrade was expecting me, and showed me down a hallway of cells to the very last one which, he explained, lay above the heating room, and was therefore considerably warm. "I must close the door behind you, Doctor. You have been searched? Very well. Do knock if you wish to get out. The constable down the corridor will hear you."

I felt a shiver running down my spine as the heavy door fell shut behind me and the key turned in the lock, but I must confess to a start when my eyes fell upon Holmes. Surely the official forces had shown considerable consideration for his state of health, but it still was deplorably little. The gaslight was sufficient, and the temperature relatively high, but the wooden bench did not make for a comfortable place for bed rest, not even with the soft fur on which Holmes was resting, the simple pillow and the two blankets, which were tucked around his shivering form. His eyes were closed, but I could tell that he was not asleep, for his features were tense. He had paled further, an unhealthy shine had appeared in his complexion.

"Holmes?"

He stirred a fraction and blinked at me. "Eh? Ah, it is you, Watson. It took Mycroft quite a while to get home, eh?"

"Indeed. He promises to come in the morning."

"Well, then he shall just be in time to hear the jury's verdict."

"But surely this is nonsense. They will quickly find you're innocent."

"One would expect that, eh? Watson, the word of the suspect counts for nothing, and in view of the facts I do except a capital sentence. The evidence is damning."

"Holmes!"

"Be careful, don't upset the lamp. They won't hang an invalid, and their doctor has confirmed your professional opinion for the moment, which gives us a little time. I assume I can rely on the fact that you do not believe this nonsense?"

"Of course not, Holmes. What do you want me to do?"

"Sit down, there's just space for you at the foot of this bench. I do not believe, Watson, that we are facing two mysteries here, but only one. What better method to get me out of the way than ensuring a lengthy stay in the gaol? They are inventive, that I grant them. Where brutal force has failed, they now use their wits. I don't suppose you were allowed to take you medical bag with you?"

"No."

"Of course." He shifted uncomfortably. "As for the evidence, Scotland Yard has found several fingerprints that are no doubt my own, an empty revolver and a walking stick. Lestrade presented them to me, and they are mine – however..."

"They could have been taken at the attack in Baker Street, and an imprint made of your finger in wax."

"Exactly. I was quite senseless at the departure of the attackers, and nobody seems to have noticed them, so we do not know for sure. Apparently, this corporal has been clubbed unconscious, and shot through the heart. I have told Lestrade that so clumsy an approach was not my style, but he would not have it. No, this... affair is just another attempt at my life."

"They expect you to be hanged?" I cried with some horror.

"Lower, please, Watson. I fear these conditions have aggravated my headache. For a criminal, murdering a policeman is not extraordinary. It is rather the crime they plan to commit which bothers me. They do not shrink from murder, so it could be anything, anything at all. There's nothing in the papers, Watson?"

"Nothing."

"The agony columns?"

"Well, I..."

"What of it?"

"I did not look at them."

He sighed. "You should, Watson, you should. Maybe you will remember when you are standing at my grave."

"Really, Holmes!" I jumped to my feet, ready to leave. We used to avoid the subject of dying on all costs, but now the memories came rushing back to me, memories of a rainy day when an empty coffin was lowered into a fresh grave, the low murmur of the priest, Mrs Hudson's sobbing, the soft hand of my wife on my arm, although I hardly felt it at the time, and the still, black-clad figure of Mycroft Holmes at my side, his face set in iron.

I had turned to flee when Holmes caught me by the sleeve, pulling me back into the present. He had sat up with an enormous effort, sweat springing on his face, but his hand tightened around my wrist with considerable strength. "I'm sorry, Watson. I should not have... Please stay." Sherlock Holmes was not a man who had to apologize very often, nor did he possess considerable skill in the art of remorse. Having angered our landlady, he often sought refugee in his experiences of acting, but now he had honoured me with a real, heartfelt apology, as awkward as it was, and how could I turn him down when he looked so sick and lost on the bench of a prison cell?

"Apology accepted, Holmes. Lie back down."

"Don't leave."

"I won't." I sat again by his feet. "What can I do, Holmes?"

"Get Mycroft to work on this. If we fail to convince him, things look black indeed."

"He's your brother. Surely..."

"Mycroft is also a very lazy man, who lives for facts, and facts alone. I doubt he will fail to take the circumstances into the equation, but if he does, the facts are indeed against us. He would do nothing to save me, brother or no."

I found it hard to believe in such cold-heartedness, even after my long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, and I told him so.

"Facts are facts, Watson, and to brother Mycroft, they are of greater importance than my poor self."


	9. Chapter 9

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 9**

I spent the night at Scotland Yard, curled up on a bench in Lestrade's bureau which was probably more comfortable than Holmes's resting place. I visited him occasionally throughout the night, during which he seemed to go through a literary hell. Without any pain relief he had to battle not only the full force of his illness, but also the considerable pain his bruises caused him, and their combined force prevented him from snatching more than a fraction of sleep at a time. Worst of all was the strain on his mind, which, as ever, chafed at inaction. He had no solution, nor a line of thought to bring light into his current position, and the cell offered nothing else to occupy his mind. At dawn, he looked worse than ever, although the healing process of his injuries had finally begun.

Upon my next call I found his cell empty, and immediately enquired as to his whereabouts. The constable on duty pointed me to the inspector in charge.

He was a certain Matthew Madeleine, a middle-aged man of French origin. He was stout, and wore a flock of grizzled hair proudly above his thick glasses. His left ear was horribly scarred, most likely an injury acquired in the line of work. His eyes were remarkably dark. He was no beauty, to say the least, but had an air of head-on masterfulness that may have surpassed even Holmes's. Madeleine used every ounce of his impressive appearance and each fraction of his deep, powerful voice to intimidate. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes? No, he's not out. No, he hasn't been released. Sickroom? Why, no. He certainly is in his cell."

"I tell you, he isn't. I have just come from thence."

"People do not vanish out of prison, Doctor. Surely you are mistaken."

"I can make out a person in a barren room of eight square feet!"

"Of course." His attitude was perfectly infuriating, aggravated only by his tone of annoyance and disbelief. "I will see to it. Now I must ask you to leave the building before I get a constable to show you out."

Simmering with anger, I swallowed around the lump in my throat and tried to ignore my heavy heart to obey this command and seek out Mycroft Holmes, if only to carry out Sherlock's last instructions to me.

"Calm yourself, Doctor. I'm sure they have merely placed him in a different cell." The elder Holmes pocketed his watch.

"Whatever for? And besides, the inspector could have told me."

"I have ceased having much confidence in the official police force, Doctor. I will see to the matter. You are welcome to stay, of course, but maybe you should return to Baker Street?"

Our lodgings seemed barren and vast without Holmes's powerful presence. Mrs. Hudson had had the window replaced, but I could not help staring at the spot where the hole had been. In my heart I knew even then that something was horribly wrong, but I could not lay my finger on what exactly it was.

At midday, Mrs Hudson brought up a cold lunch and a note. "You must eat, Doctor, or you will make yourself ill." I recognised the worry in her words, and dismissed her with a gentle nod and smile before tearing open the note.

I upset my plate in the shock of discovering that it was filled with a shaking scroll in the hand I knew so well to be my dear friend's. He had a distinct handwriting as a rule, easily distinguishable, but these trembling letters I associated only with the note he had left for me to find at the Reichenbach Falls, in the certainty that his demise was imminent. It still looked like it had been written at home, on a desk, but to me, the difference was evident.

Abduction, possibly murder (it said)

Grave danger you and Lestrade

Police officer. The Tower. Jew

His writing was interrupted by all evidences of a breaking pen, and not resumed. The message in itself was cryptic at first glance, yet, considering the state of agitation it had been written in, as clear as day.

Apparently, Holmes had been abducted, and somehow managed to send this note to me. He suspected murderous motives, which should not have surprised me after the events of the past days, but he also warned Lestrade and myself. Then the contents became harder to understand, as Holmes's writing shook almost feverish. I was sure that they had some connection to the crime we were anticipating, yet I could make neither head nor tail of it. I had no idea what he meant by the reference to a police officer, or a Jew. The Tower was well known to any Londoner, or Briton, for that matter, but whether it was a clue, the hiding place, or the scene of the crime remained a mystery. More so, since the Tower was constantly guarded by the Tower Guards.

If only Holmes were unharmed. The thought intruded upon me involuntarily, shattering my line of reasoning to pieces. Whatever I was to do now, I would post the contents of this note first to Mycroft. He was the one person I deemed trustworthy after Holmes's allusion to a member of the official force.

I then departed, leaving Mrs Hudson with strict instructions to open the door for no one but myself and Mycroft Holmes, or his brother, if he miraculously turned up, and headed for the Tower. I was unsure what I suspected to find, but I never got as far anyhow. In a small alley, a man bumped into me, and while he was apologizing profusely, something hard hit the back of my head, and darkness fell like night.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 10**

"Watson! Watson!"

I know now that I had imagined the anguished cries of my dear friend, but in that moment, it was the thing that brought me back to consciousness. My head was spinning from the violent blow I had received, and I felt a splitting headache building, but after I had shaken the annoying ringing in my ears and the blurriness before my eyes, I recognised the only sound existing in reality. It was the laboured breathing of another and a sound I would have named a sob.

I found myself tied to a chair as I tried to turn, blinking to adjust my eyes to the dim light. The bonds were not very tight, and with a little shifting, I had almost freed myself, but for the moment, I thought it better not to give that fact away. The room was unfurnished but for the chair to which I was tied, and the other, upon which a man was hunched, bound so tightly that I could see the blood had nearly been cut off from his hands. He was the source of the sobbing, and as his head rolled to one side uncontrolled, a streak of light hit his face.

If not for the dimness and my still impaired vision, I would have known him immediately, but as it was, I only now recognised the familiar features and figure, even with the blindfold covering a good part of his face. He had been stripped of his overcoat and boots, his ankles fastened to the legs of the chair by both iron shackles and rope. Red splotches covered his usually white shirt. He had not acknowledged my presence merely because he was gagged with a filthy looking rag of cloth which must have made the reflex to choke nearly impossible to control.

"Holmes!" I cried, and was rewarded by a curt nod before his head sank back onto his chest, speaking of definite exhaustion. "My dear fellow! I am so sorry – I should have been more careful, but don't worry. I've sent the content of you note-"

He cut me off with a violent motion of his head, which prompted me to finally shake my bonds and free him of the gag. As expected, he burst into a lengthy bout of coughing after I had tossed the gag away, which made the shackles at his ankles, and wrists, too, rattle. "Quiet, Watson. These walls have ears," he finally managed, his voice weak and rough from abuse, a strange sobbing sound still catching in his throat.

I bowed low to his ear and whispered. "Now I understand your note – jewels! The crown jewels? That's insanity."

"Maybe." He flinched as I reached up to remove the blindfold as well. There was nothing I could do with the bindings, the knots were too tight to loosen them without an appropriate device.

"Who are they?"

"Dangerous men, with no respect for the life of others. Maybe they are indeed insane. It's not your fault, Watson, that you are here now. These are ruthless people."

"But why?"

"I do not know." God heavens, his voice sounded wrong, like that of a stranger. It had lost all of his usual aloofness, masterfulness, was stripped bare, and filled with pain and fright I had expected Holmes would never allow anyone to see.

"Holmes, are you sure you are all right?"

He had turned his face out of the light as soon as I had removed the blindfold, but now I carefully turned his head to face me. The bandages I had applied were all but gone, and the freshly crusted wound on his throat was certainly the source of the blood. The bruise on his face was no worse, but he could not keep his eyes focussed on mine, and his lids slid shut from time to time, apparently beyond his control. His pupils were severely dilated.

He smiled thinly, no doubt following my train of thought. "Don't look so horrified, Watson. Had you expected them to leave me lucid, eh?"

"Focus," I instructed, horrified. "Try to follow my finger with your eyes."

He failed abysmally. "Doesn't work, Watson."

"I noticed. Holmes, I need you to concentrate. What is it? A drug?"

Again he made that sound so similar to a sob. "Poison. Slow, but infallibly deadly, Watson. It's almost too late now for the antidote."

"I will get you out of here."

"You cannot. The door is strong, locked and bolted, and the window out of reach."

"Is there nothing we can do?"

"Nothing."

"Quite right." We both started at the voice from the doorway, where a man had appeared, pointing his gun at us. He was big, but his face was covered by a mask of black velvet, making his features unrecognisable. "Stand back, Doctor." He levelled the gun at Holmes, who still had his back to the door. "Now replace the blindfold, there's a good chap, or I will not hesitate to shoot."

I did as I was told, and had the feeling that Holmes welcomed the soft cloth, as it did lock out the distorted pictures his eyes were no doubt conjuring up. As soon as I was finished, a bullet shattered the woodwork between my feet and Holmes's chair.

"Back away! Hands above your head."

I obeyed; the gun aiming mercilessly at Holmes's back left me no other choice.

"Now, Emile."

A smaller figure whisked past the first, cloaked in black and masked as well. His grip, however, was harsh as he tied my hands behind my back, and tugged me along and out of the room. Bright, blinding daylight welcomed me, until a black cloth was pulled over my eyes. I heard a horse's hoof scraping on the same stony surface I stood on, and soon enough I was dragged up the footplate of a carriage, and pushed roughly into the far corner of the left-hand-side bench. Someone dropped into the seat beside me, and then there was the clatter of handcuffs, and a muffled outcry followed by an undignified sob as someone, apparently Holmes, collapsed against my feet before he was pulled forcefully away by a fourth person, and the door of the carriage snapped shut. The cold barrel of a gun was pushed into my ribs. "Not a word now, from either of you, or I shall shoot you both." And then the carriage jerked into motion.

I tried to apply Holmes's methods, and determine our route by the sounds I heard, but the pounding of my head frequently drowned them all; besides, the unrestrained sounds of distress from Holmes proved to be very distracting. Once, I heard a church bell in the distance, but nothing helpful. After about an hour's drive I felt the draught of an open carriage door and was pushed out at full speed. My reflex reaction to catch myself broke the bindings which held me, but came too late to prevent my impact on the rough earth and grass of what I assumed to be a ditch by the road.

I lay motionless until the sounds of the carriage had died in the distance before I removed the blindfold and waited for my eyes to adjust to daylight, however faint it was – dusk was falling quickly.

I indeed found myself in a ditch beside a lonely country road. No houses were visible in the immediate vicinity. I had no idea where I was, or why I had been abandoned here, but my musing was cut short by a choked cry further up the road. I recognised Holmes's voice, and hurried up to his listless figure. He was no longer bound, but the blindfold was still in place, and apparently the effort of rolling to his back had pitched him into unconsciousness. His pulse was racing, and his face twisted in agony as I removed the blindfold. The poison was working restlessly, destroying him. I needed to get help quickly, but I could not possibly leave him. He was utterly helpless and without protection, and I had no idea how long it would take me to find anyone if I just stumbled aimlessly to one direction.

To my great relief, fortune looked kindly on us.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 11**

Even before I had time to think about a method to help us survive the night in the wilderness and probably, somehow, manage to get the drug out of Holmes's system, a wagon rattled along the road towards us. It was driven by a farmer, no doubt, since it was loaded with straw he was bringing in from his field. He was singing jollily to himself after a hard day's work.

Without much consideration for my own health, I jumped onto the road in front of the startled horse and an equally startled man. I must have been a deplorable sight, with the bump forming at the back of my head and my smudged clothes, but he had not yet seen my poor friend. I only hoped the smell of blood would not madden the horse. "Please, I'm sorry, sir! Please hear me out!"

"Blimey – you are a gentleman, are you not?"

"Watkins by name, sir, and fallen upon evil days. Please, sir, I need your help. My friend is very sick."

"Where is he?"

"Over there, in the ditch. I beg you..."

"I will help you, don't worry. Watkins it is?"

"Doctor, actually. Never put up a practice, I'm afraid."

The farmer tutted. "Ah, I know that story. Johnson by name, and farmer by trade. Good heavens!" Johnson – if that was his name, for I felt that others weren't what they pretended to be as soon as I myself used an alias – had spotted my dear friend.

"That's Hadley, sir. Much obliged for your help."

"Sure looks like you need it." Johnson shrugged out of his coat and pressed it into my hands. "Wrap him into that. After that, I think I can easily lift him."

Holmes seemed to have reached the borders of the realm of unconsciousness, for he was stirring faintly as I pulled the coat around his shoulders and fastened it so it would not slide down. "We're ready."

"Good." Johnson lifted Holmes into his arms without much effort, his still, frail form easily cowered by the massive frame and muscles of the farmer in his shirtsleeves.

He placed my friend upon the straw, making certain he was resting safely and would not topple down as soon as the wagon moved, and motioned me to climb up before he returned to the reins of his horse and we were moved once again.

"You should be thinking about getting a doctor who has stuff, me friend."

"I don't have the money to pay."

"Don't you worry. I'll pay, or rather, I won't have to. The local doctor of our village, Miller, dines with my wife and me tonight. I'm sure he won't mind."

"That's splendid. I really cannot thank you enough."

"Never mind that. You see those lights? We are nearly there."

The light of the small farmhouse with its friendly, beckoning glow of warm fires and comfort was enough to awaken a forceful longing in my weary and worried bones. Even if the country doctor had not the means to help Holmes – as long as I did not know the nature of the poison, I could not even tell him which antidote to administer – Johnson had at least gifted us with some last hours of comfort for the dying man. As a friend, I tried with all my heart to overlook the signs that Holmes was nearing the final stages, but as a doctor, I could not. The convulsive shivers were not severe, nothing more than a chill, and his face remained expressionless throughout, but his eyes behind his closed lids darted from one side to the other, uncontrolled, and his hand would jerk in mine.

Farmer Johnson halted the wagon just outside his front door. As he hurried up to the entrance, the door opened and in a streak of friendly light flooded the yard. A woman stepped outside, her almost white dress shining in the light of the candle she carried. "Who are these men, Jeff?"

"Dr Watkins and Mr Hadley, two fellows I picked up on the road. They are in need of a good supper and the services of Dr Miller, me darling. Is he in?"

"Yes, Patrick's in the sitting room. Are they very sick?"

"Hadley is," I ventured. "My pleasure, madame."

She nodded, revealing her calm beauty. "Take them up to the guest room, Jeff. I'll send Patrick up to you. Dinner is almost ready, I will set something aside for you, Dr Watkins."

We were shown into a small but homely guest room, furnished with a single bed and a sitting group of a sofa and various armchairs. But the main feature of the room was a fireplace, in which Johnson quickly ignited a fire after he had placed my dear friend on the bed. I handed the coat back to the farmer and wrapped Holmes into the duvet instead. By now, the cramps were almost constantly present, and rather sooner or later his body would be too exhausted to continue the fight. He was quite senseless – thankfully, for I could not have stopped him from betraying our true identity in this stage, although I dearly wished to have another word with him, should he indeed die. At Reichenbach, we had both been denied that last conversation, his thoughts conferred to me only by a note, which, with all its authenticity, had been guarded at best. I assumed Moriarty had been glancing over Holmes's shoulder during its development.

"Watson." The breathless murmur brought my mind back to the present in an instant and I turned to face Holmes, whose eyes had unsteadily fixed on mine. "What has happened?"

"You must not talk now. We are safe."

"Baker Street?"

"I'm afraid not."

He sighed, obviously seeing nothing but my face. "Too bad."

"Quickly, Holmes, tell me which poison it was." I bent low as his voice would not carry, and he breathed the answer into my ear. "Then it is not yet too late."

"Watson, you see, I deduced it, they did not tell me. I deduced it from..." But he could not tell me how he had deduced the name of the poison, for the effects of the same claimed his consciousness once more, in the middle of the sentence.

When Dr Miller finally arrived, it was in the company of farmer Johnson's wife, who carried two steaming bowls of broth and a loaf of bread. I quietly told my colleague of profession what was needed, and then devoted my attention to the most excellent soup. Meanwhile, Miller made a cursory examination of my friend, before he filled a syringe with the antidote I had requested. He was a young, bespectacled man, with unruly mousy hair which was probably the reason why he had not been benefited with a wife, as his bare ring finger informed me. I could not help but glance at my own hands, which once had been charmed by that valid bound of marriage, a pleasure I had been deprived off during Holmes's hiatus years. If truth may be told, I was not sure whether I could suffer the pain of losing Holmes again, and emerge unscathed.

"Doctor." Miller's warm hand on my arm jerked me out of my musing. "Maybe you should administer the dose. I would guess a familiar touch would be most welcome to Mr Holmes."

He must have seen my startled expression, for he continued immediately. "Don't worry, Dr Watson. Your secret is safe with me. Always glad to help a famous colleague, even if the fame he has required is not in his own professional field."

I could not help but smile at such a statement. "You grant my poor scribblings too much praise. However, thank you very much for your help."

"My pleasure. And please, keep this bottle of morphine. It looks like your friend may need it."

"Goodbye, Doctor."

He left the room as Johnson entered, carrying a bowl of water. "I'd thought you might want to clean yourself up."

"Much indebted to you, sir. I do not know what would have happened without your generous help."

"Don't mention it. Shall I tell my Rose that you enjoyed your food?"

"Yes, very much, thank you. May I ask how long we will be allowed to stay?"

"As long as it takes. We are not wealthy, Doctor, but it's quite enough, what with our son being off at a boarding school abroad – courtesy to his godmother, you understand."

"Perfectly, Mr Johnson."

"Ah, we will have to do something about those clothes of yours. Why don't you take these two dressing gowns, they should fit you perfectly, and hand them to me? I'll see what can be repaired."


	12. Chapter 12

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 12**

It was only after several further helpful suggestions that left me huddled up in a dressing gown and a blanket, and the same prepared for Holmes, that the couple retired for the night and left me to see to Holmes's well-being. After the administration of the antidote, he had calmed down, and was now resting comfortably, but only his awaking would show whether there was any permanent damage.

I must admit that the comforts of an armchair, a full stomach and a crackling fire had lulled me into a light sleep until I woke to a familiar voice calling: "Anybody there?"

"Just me, Holmes. But do remember, to the farmers, we are Watkins and Hadley."

"Where exactly are we?"

"In the farmhouse of a Jeffrey Johnson and his wife, Rose. They will allow us to stay for the time being. How are you feeling?" I sat on the bed beside him, knowing that however he was feeling, I had to convince him to changed into the dressing gown at least. His own clothes where ruined anyway.

"Better, Watson. I am quite well, really. I wish, however, that there were more clues to this case."

"You are amazing, Holmes."

His eyes returned to my face with honest puzzlement. "What did I do?"

"You just had a very close brush with death, old fellow, and still all you can think of is the case."

"It seems you still do not understand how a mind like mine works, even after those years during which I have allowed you to glimpse at every fraction of my thought process. Watson, I can not exist without something to occupy my mind. Especially in situations as these, it is essential, do you hear, essential that I have something to concentrate on, a problem to work on, or I shall surely go mad."

"It's the pain, is it not?"

He achieved an almost sitting position, carefully examining the room. "Ah, they have a child, I see. Grown up, no doubt, and away for a long time – a school abroad, maybe. This room has once been his, I'll wager, for it undoubtedly is a son. He is expected to return some day, and the room serves as a guest room in the meantime. As for your question, I assume one's arm being twisted out of its socket and back again is bound to leave lingering effects."

I was utterly astonished at what he had deduced in so short a time, and from so little. Although I had known that the Johnsons had a son, it never occurred to me that this very room had been his, let alone determine his gender. However, it was the last sentence which alerted my medical instincts. "What do you mean by that?"

"To put it frankly, Watson, my shoulder does very much pain me, and I have been using deductions as distractions ever since it has happened, but it is rather hard to deduce anything with a blindfold covering one's eyes. But you see, I am adopting your method of telling a story wrong and, foremost, starting with the result rather than the beginning. That may be the general aspect of my cases, but should not be applied to story-telling. You no doubt wish to know how I came into that position in which we met again, and managed to send the note to you that, in retrospect, seems less promising."

"Actually, Holmes, I want you to get a good night's sleep, since I must confess, I feel deucedly tired myself, and therefore I was about to enquire whether you would like pain relief for the night. You can tell your story in the morning, and explain those fantastic deductions to me. I'm only glad that it was not too late to administer the antidote."

"So am I, my dear Watson, and in answer to you question, yes, I would like to be pain free for the moment, even though it dulls my senses. I trust, dear fellow, that you will be on your guard, and lock that door before you sleep?"

This seemed slightly paranoid to me, but after the experiences of the past days, I was all too glad to take every precaution. "Of course."


	13. Chapter 13

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 13**

I was awakened late in the morning by the pleasant smell of freshly baked cake and tea, and rolled over on the sofa, feeling very warm and content to stay just were I was.

A knock on the door, however, did rouse me. "Doctor? I have set aside some cake and a pot of tea for you and your friend. I also have a newspaper here, if you would like to see it." It was Rose Johnson, the lovely wife of our host. She was a rare beauty indeed, more so by daylight, although, if it had not been for her eyes, I would not have spared her more than a glance. You must not think me callous, dear readers, but since the death of my beloved wife, I could not bear to glance at any other woman for the fear of blemishing her memory. However, Rose – for she insisted that I addressed her by her first name, throwing all which is gentlemanly and proper out of the window – had such wonderful, sparkling eyes which even by their colour reminded me much of my dear Mary. If anything, I was compelled to treat her with respect and friendship. After all, she, too, shared my wife's gift of helping poor souls in need, and that phrase described our current situation quite accurately.

"I can't thank you enough for your kindness."

She flashed me a fast, almost childlike smile. "It's no bother, Doctor. I hope you enjoy the cake – it's chocolate."

For a farmer's family, chocolate must have been a rare pleasure, and I felt very much honoured by the gesture. "Thank you. I hope Hadley will eat a bite."

"So do I. How is he?"

"He was awake last night, and considerably better, but we must wait for further developments."

"Of course. Enjoy your meal."

"We shall." I closed the door behind her and deposited the tray on the bedside table, waving some of the hot steam of the tea pot in Holmes's direction. He was sleeping peacefully, but now, with a gentle sound of comfort I rarely heard, he stirred and blinked open his eyes. "Watson, what are you doing?"

"Care for some tea and cake, Holmes? How are you feeling?" I added when his eyes grew sad and wistful. "Is your shoulder paining you?"

"No, it's not that. Watson, I really wish we were back at Baker Street, but until this case is solved, that possibility is inevitably blocked to us. Even if it weren't for the criminals, who no doubt assume I am dead, the police is still holding a murder charge against me. No, the official forces, in this case, are as much our enemy as the criminals."

"What if, heaven forbid, we do not solve the case?" I asked, breaking a piece of the cake in half.

"That is a possibility I do not want to consider at the moment. But if everything else fails, it leaves us no other way but to proclaim the news of our deaths and start afresh, most likely in a different country. It is not, I tell you from experience, a pleasant prospect."

In the rush and joy of Holmes's return to life, I had not looked past the fact, and my little disappointment that he had not told me he was still alive. With the fascinating tales of his journeys in the guise of the Norwegian Sigerson he had told me that very evening, I had not once had occasion to think how these three years had been for him. Even though I have often remarked that when Holmes turned his aim at his own profession the stage lost an outstanding actor, I could not even begin to imagine how it had felt to be stripped of one's entire identity in the fraction of a moment, and how heavy such a decision had to weigh on him. I assumed he had been just as glad to return to who he was as I had been to see him alive and well. Suddenly uncomfortable under his close scrutiny, I handed him a piece of cake. "Why don't you eat a bite, and tell me about the events I missed. Maybe we can discover a solution together."

He took the cake I offered him calmly, and even I, who was accustomed to his usual impassiveness, was surprised how little emotion was in his words as he told me the following: "There really is not that much to tell, Watson. As you know, I was much the worse for wear after that night spent in prison, so I did not think to question it when an inspector entered the cell barely after you had left. It was an ungodly hour, but it only dawned upon me that something was amiss after he had pressed a cloth smelling of chloroform into my face. My struggle was futile. When I came to my senses, I was inside a moving carriage. I was well aware of the presence of at least two men, not counting the coachman, and knew that at present, any attempt at an escape would only lead to injury and, quite probably, another administration of chloroform. Thus I endeavoured not to make myself known, and to my surprise it worked. I obtained a clear view of both men – the one you have encountered already, always wearing a mask, small by stature, but none the less strong, and the other, the inspector, by the name of Madeleine, if I recall correctly."

"Madeleine!"

"You know him?"

"Not exactly. It was he who would not acknowledge that you had disappeared from your cell. He treated me like a madman. If he is one of the criminals, that of course explains a great deal."

"Indeed. So that is why they stopped the carriage, thus giving me the opportunity to act. I trust the note was readable, despite the vile cocktail of drugs they injected before leaving me alone? It is but lucky that the street urchins tend to follow carriages for the hope of a tip. I tell you, the Irregular looked shocked. There was no time to explain, of course. He had to get out of there without being caught. I had no intention of leading them directly to you."

"Of course, the note. Holmes, do you really think they plan to steal the crown jewels? It is quite impossible, with all the Tower under triple guard because of the King's visit on Monday. Surely they would choose a more opportune moment?"

"Or would they? I wonder..." Holmes tapped his index finger against his lips and flashed me a smile as if some clue to this business had just occurred to him. "Well, Watson, there's nothing more to tell. I lost consciousness quickly after the Irregular had left me, and was only awakened when the third man, the one you too met, kindly informed me that he was poisoning me. The length before the effects made themselves known and the symptoms themselves were sufficient to deduce what it was. I'm glad I was correct."

"Yes, at least it was one of a rather wide range against which this antidote works. What are we to do now, Holmes? We can hardly warn the police that they are planning to rob the Tower. They would never believe us."

"No, we cannot, and, Watson, I do believe there's more to it than robbery. They did not recoil from murder before."

"What, then? Murdering the King? That's... that's..."

"Maybe that's exactly what they wish everyone to think. You said you posted the contents of my note to Mycroft?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe he has informed the authorities by now, although I would much prefer he would keep out of the way. There's no person so august as to stand above murderers."

"Not even Jupiter, eh?"

"No, not even he. Omniscience is remarkable as it is, but knowing all does not imply to be able to prevent it. If the police knows, the guards will be very watchful indeed. Monday you say?"

"Yes, Monday."

"Well, then we do have three days, which we both, Watson, should spent resting, do you not agree?"

I agreed with all my heart, for my medical instinct sensed the underlying exhaustion in Holmes's new-found alertness, and thus it came as no surprise to me that Holmes was soon sleeping again, leaving me to wander about the room to while away the time.

By tea-time, Rose Johnson honoured us with a visit. I appreciated the company clearly more than my companion, but he said nothing from where he lay resting on the bed. Rose was an intelligent woman with a charming sense of humour and a sprightly attitude which made for excellent conversation.

"Have you read your newspaper, Doctor?"

"No, not yet. Anything of interest?"

"Only this most grotesque affair of Mr Sherlock Holmes. May I?" She flipped open a page. "I will read it out to you.

'Suspected murderer still at large

After his disappearance from Scotland Yard the day before yesterday, the official forces still have no clues as to the whereabouts of Mr Sherlock Holmes, private investigator, who is suspected of murdering Corporal Nathaniel Smith

After being arrested on circumstantial evidence, Mr Sherlock Holmes seems to have vanished out of the holding cell at Scotland Yard without further trace. Neither the officers of the Yard nor passers-by have noticed anything out of the ordinary. It seems now that the well-known detective has turned his powers against the law and succeeded in evading the police. Although his flight points towards his guilt, the official forces are still investigating, says Scotland Yard Inspector Lestrade. It lies now in the hand of the police to find this new master criminal before any more harm can be done.'

What do you think of it, gentlemen? I'd say, if this Sherlock Holmes is really as clever as he is said to be, he has not committed this murder. I wonder why he has fled."

"It is a mystery to be sure," I said, trying to control the sweat that was threatening to break through my skin.

Holmes's remark, however, succeeded in freezing my blood. "Maybe someone took him out of prison."

"A friend?" enquired Mrs Johnson, her interest in my taciturn companion suddenly piqued.

"Or an enemy."

"That's quite a theory, Mr Hadley! Indeed, it is certainly plausible. I have always wished to meet Mr Sherlock Holmes, although I assume it is fortunate that I have not felt the need to consult him, is it not?"

"Indeed it is, Mrs Johnson," I said with a warning glance at Holmes. As usual, my efforts were futile.

"He probably would have told you that you are a farmer's wife, with an instinct for style and an exceptional fondness for horses, for you are no doubt a superb rider, and, if I'm not much mistaken, earn a little in teaching children to ride horses, do you not, Mrs Johnson?"

"Why, Mr Hadley, what a lucky guess! But please, do call me Rose."

"I cannot, as long as you insist upon 'Mr Hadley'."

"Well, what, pray tell me, is your Christian name?"

"It is Sherlock, Mrs Johnson."

Never before have I seen such a look of astonishment on any human being's features. Rose Johnson's eyes dilated with surprise, her lips were slightly parted, and she struggled for words. I was unsure what had driven Holmes to allow her to know our secret, for I have often observed his distrust in women in general, and their motives in particular. He often remarked that they were like quicksand, too different from his cold, reasoning mind to be relied on.

"Then you are Sherlock Holmes! And Dr Watson, no doubt."

"My pleasure, Mrs Johnson," answered I, in rather cold tones, I'm afraid, but I am sure that in the face of the circumstances, my slip of etiquette will be pardoned.

"Don't worry, gentlemen! Your secret is save with me, as you no doubt knew, Mr Holmes, though I can not begin to fathom how. Do you wish me to do anything for you?"

"Indeed I do." Holmes steepled his fingers, as was his habit when he was talking to a client. "You have the ability to go to town without the knowledge of your husband?"

"I can ask Dr Miller to take me."

"He knows anyhow, Holmes."

"He does? Well, I suppose it is of no matter. Let him take you to London today, and part from him there. I wish you to talk to one of the street urchins you will find at the corners of Baker Street – he will be a member of the Irregulars. Tell him you come from me, and hand him this note." Holmes scribbled a few words on the border of the newspaper, ripped it off and handed it to her, carefully folded. "Pass then two hours in London, and after that interval, visit Scotland Yard and tell Inspector Lestrade that you have seen Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson steal a boat and embark on the river, where the boat was turned over by the current, which is no doubt strong after the rain of last night, and that you have not seen them resurface."

"You want me to tell him you drowned."

"You do not know that, but all evidence suggests it, yes."

"Very well. I shall go at once, Mr Holmes."


	14. Chapter 14

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 14**

After her departure, Holmes lay back in the pillows, obviously pleased.

"Why did you tell her, Holmes?"

"A woman's nature may be mercurial, and her motives equally so, but your stories have succeeded in developing a strong sentiment in my favour in many of the fairer sex, Watson, and this sympathy should be used to our advantage, especially in moments such as this. She will carry out my orders to the letter."

"So you have no hopes of solving the case?"

"Because I wish Scotland Yard to believe we are dead and to call off the search? No, my dear fellow. I wish to have a free hand, and not to be bothered by the blunderers of the Yard. We will depart for London on Monday."

"In disguise, no doubt."

"No, there will be no need for that, Watson. It is a singular feature of the human nature that one rather assumes his senses to be playing tricks on him than admits that one's underlying assumption is faulty. Would you not agree that you would rather attribute it to a trick of the mind if you saw a dead man walking the streets of London than assume that he was in fact alive? If you recall my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance, did you not at first assume I was a ghost?"

"Yes, of course I did. But Holmes, it seems very dangerous."

He tutted. "Danger is part of our profession, Watson, and it cannot be helped. We must be in London come Monday."

"Baker Street, then?"

"Oh, no. I'm not quite as bold as that. Mrs Hudson has seen me resurrect once. She would not be fooled, and neither, I imagine, would our enemy."

Come morning, the papers were full with the accounts of our death. Rose Johnson presented us with several articles, some saddened, some gleeful, but all in all, Holmes was satisfied that even without an account by my hand the public seemed indeed to believe that we had died upon our flight.

Dr Miller, who had read of it in the paper, rushed in upon us in the afternoon, and was obviously relieved to find us alive and as well as the circumstances would allow. Holmes still depended on a regular dose of morphine to stem off the brunt of the pain that still radiated from his much abused shoulder and the remainder of the bruises. I was grateful for the second supply of morphine Miller had brought, for I was cutting it rather short. The day passed uneventfully and with much rest for both of us. Holmes drifted in and out of sleep like he was wont to, being a still very sick man, and there was not really anything to do.

I had decided to leave him to his sleep during the evening meal, but awoke myself as he started to stir rather restlessly during the night. When I approached his side with a candle, I discovered that his eyes were clenched tightly shut in pain, and he was wide awake. "Holmes? Is everything all right, old fellow?"

His eyes flickered open and shut again, and he shifted to find a more comfortable position. I had placed his arm in a sling to protect his shoulder, but it was obvious that even the slight movement jarred it. "Would you mind administering another dose of morphine?"

"I'd rather not, old friend. By now, I have to decrease the dosage, and you have had one this afternoon."

"It does not seem to have worked, Watson."

I laughed in spite of myself. "That's nonsense. Of course it has, you even drifted off to sleep immediately."

"That was because I was infernally tired anyhow – Watson, I tell you, it has not had any effect at all." The expression of utter sincerity and conviction in his face was enough to finally convince me.

"Well, then, how long since you noticed?"

"I did not sleep well, so you could say that I noticed immediately."

"I started a new bottle. Maybe it is a less concentrated solution."

"Who gave you this fresh supply?"

"Dr Miller left it at my disposal, as he did the first one." I examined the flask. It looked true to its label, which said nothing else than the first, but after all, morphine was but a clear liquid. "You think it is no morphine."

"Oh, Watson, you are truly scintillating!"

"This is not funny. I could have injected you with heaven knows what."

"Ah bah, it's probably saline. Did it not strike you as odd that Miller recognised us immediately? If I could have prevented him from learning that the newspaper report was as far from reality as could be, I would have. I am firmly convinced that he is part of our criminal gang."

"And our meeting him here? Coincidence?"

"The Johnsons know nothing. Probably it is indeed. Madeleine was working as a police inspector by chance after all. I wonder what they are truly planning. Anyhow, we must make our disappearance tomorrow, and without the knowledge of Miller. I have no desire of having those men dog our steps, as limited as our possibilities are." He chuckled softly. "My collection of Ms is growing rather quickly, eh, Watson?"

"I have no desire of having any of them turn into a second Moriarty."

"Neither do I, my dear fellow."

We bid our goodbyes in the morning to Mrs Johnson alone, for her husband had gone out for the day's work on his field. She wished us the best, and even Holmes seemed to appreciate her words, although he had been much distracted, no doubt by his own physical condition. It was still hard for him to stay awake for any lengthy interval after such an exertion, and standing on his own two feet was putting further strain on him.

The Johnsons had supplied us with fresh clothing, for our own was irreparably ruined. But she handed me the remainders tied to a small bundle including food and some money.

"It is not much, but enough to pay you a room in an inn or suchlike for a few days until you decide to return to life. I wish you both the best of luck, gentlemen."

"And to you," I said warmly, while Holmes had already turned away with a curt nod. "Farewell, Mrs Johnson."

"It has been my pleasure meeting you both."

Being in London again cheered Holmes up greatly. His features had relaxed as far as he allowed himself in public, and although he looked tired, his eyes sparkled with the energy of old.

To my surprise, none of the public who enjoyed the warm day took any notice of us, although I felt every gaze on my too stiff bearing. "This is amazing."

Holmes nudged at my arm. "This way, Watkins." His sense of orientation was extraordinary, and even after the long time of illness, he found his way through the hustle-bustle of London with accustomed ease. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Surely this is the direction towards London Tower?"

"Quite right. I know an inn nearby, where no one will ask questions."

"The owner will recognise us, then?"

"No, he won't." Holmes smiled thinly at me. "He only knows an old sailor fallen upon drink and hard times."

As we neared the Tower, the presence of policemen increased notably, and I joined the public in their querulous stares. Holmes gave a mirthless laugh. "Well, well, it seems your message, or rather mine, has been well received."

"Surely they are only here because of the royal visit?"

"The visit being tomorrow, and so many? No, Watkins, this all hangs upon one note." To my horror, he unhooked his arm from mine and approached the leading officer of a group of policemen that walked towards us. "Excuse me, officer? Is the crime rate in this city so high that such a presence of policemen is required?"

"No, sir, the guards have been tripled by official orders because of the King's visit at the Tower tomorrow."

"Ah, thank you." Holmes turned and walked away.

I had the impression that the officer followed him with his gaze and raised an eyebrow as Holmes hooked his arm into mine again, but then he shook his head and walked on, dragging his colleagues behind him.

"Holmes," I whispered, so low that only he would hear. "I think he recognised you."

Holmes shrugged. "What of it? He will either forget it presently, or keep it to himself – else, no one will believe him, and of that humans have developed a distinct fear, old fellow. But I feel rather tired, and we should be finding our room."


	15. Chapter 15

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 15**

The room in the inn was quickly engaged and paid in advance for three days, and we settled into the attic room which was furnished with two armchairs and two beds which had been placed so close beside each other that there was barely any space to walk between.

Holmes lay down on one of the beds, and quickly drifted off into a light slumber. I left him to his sleep, knowing that he was in dire need of rest, and after obtaining a piece of paper and a pen from the bartender, I settled on my own bed to jot down some particulars of the case as far as I could recall them. Maybe it was done in the vain hope to discover some clue to the mystery, and surprise Holmes with it, but it was futile. However, I did discover that we knew not one name, but two, if they were more than an alias.

The night passed without disturbance, although we both slept lightly and fitfully. I could hear Holmes toss and turn in the darkness; once he voiced his frustration harshly, but then, with a wince, ceased his movements. I did not show him that I had been witness to his continuing distress, for I knew it would only serve to cause him embarrassment and hurt his pride.

In the morning, we were both awoken by a timid knock at the door, and Holmes had jumped from his bed and opened the door before I could stir at all. "What is it?" he enquired roughly, continuing his portrayal of Hadley from the day before.

I saw the message boy shrink under his iron gaze. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm the nephew of the inn owner, and a message was delivered for you."

Holmes tensed visibly. "For us? By name?"

"No, not by name, sir, but he gave a very clear description of you and your friend."

"Thank you." Holmes closed the door into the boy's face. "Watson..." He seemed for a moment to be at the brink of speaking, but no words ever came. Instead, his face blanched in a matter of seconds, and the usually steady hand that held the note shook suddenly.

"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?" I queried, rising as quickly as my stiff limbs would allow. The room had been decidedly cold during the night.

"Read." He thrust the note into my hand and began pacing furiously.

I unfolded the paper that had evidently been torn out of a notebook.

Sherlock (it said),

I assume the accounts of your death are, as ever, untrue, and you are relatively well somewhere. I write this note due to the courtesy of someone who has not cared to enlighten me as to his name. He wants me to ask you to come to my lodgings, if, I quote, you value my life. I trust you will do whatever is necessary.

Regards,

M.H.

I entirely understood the distress the note had to cause Holmes, even though he kept a strong reign over his emotions. My elder brother was long dead, and in the end we had not been very close – by the time I got notice of his death, the funeral had long been over. However, I could easily imagine my own feelings in the face of mortal threat to a brother. "Is it genuine?"

"If you are referring to the handwriting, yes, it is Mycroft's hand. No doubt written at gunpoint. We may not seem very close, Watson, but brother mine would never voluntarily endanger my life in such fashion, and without good cause. I trust that neither of us is as selfish. I shall have to go, of course."

"I do understand. I shall go with you."

"No. I cannot allow that. There is mortal danger involved, Watson, and I have no wish to drag you into this matter. Besides, you shall have to go to Lestrade if you get no notice from me in a matter of two hours."

"We will hand a note to one of your Irregulars, to be delivered in due time. I will not let you walk into a trap single-handed and without weapon, Holmes. Together, we may have a chance of springing the trap."

"Very well, then. Get ready."


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: I am terribly sorry for the delay in updating. Real l__ife got in my way rather forcefully. I can't guarantee that updates will be regular in the next days either... *ducks tomatoes*  
_

_

* * *

_

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 16**

We took a cab to Pall Mall, spending the last of our money on it. During the ride, Holmes was morose and taciturn, and I, who knew him so well, could read brotherly concern in his behaviour. There was, however, one question I had to breach. "Who, do you suppose, knew that we were still alive?"

Holmes barely glanced at me. "Surely it is obvious. Your fellow doctor, of course, Miller, was it? Rose Johnson is too faithful an admirer of your stories to break the law, and except for her, only Miller knew. After all, he has given you a false supply of morphine, has he not?"

Secretly, I had hoped that it had been a mere mistake, for I took great pride in my profession, and during my association with Holmes had seen too many colleagues go wrong, but my hopes were shattered by Holmes's utter conviction.

Holmes stopped the carriage in front of the Diogenes Club and we both climbed out. His brother lodged just opposite the club, and we stood on the walkway, glancing over the busy street to the house on the other side.

"The rooms are on the first floor. He is home."

"Do you assume that Miller is waiting for us there?"

"Possibly. Well, there's nothing for it. We have to cross the road and see for ourselves. Keep your stick at hand, Doctor."

I noticed his formal address, and put it down to the suppressed concern and the desperation to maintain control over his emotions, for as we quickly crossed the street, I felt him quiver with excitement.

He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. "I should have known. The housekeeper is surely out. And I do not have my keys with me."

"You will not need those, Mr Holmes."

My dear friend's back straightened instantly, and I felt my own blood running cold. Dr Miller's voice had sounded from behind, and below his coat he pressed the cold barrel of a gun into Holmes's ribs. "You will now turn and join me in my carriage, both of you, or I assure you, Mycroft will not live to see the dawn."

Holmes nodded curtly, his face grave and indiscernible, and we both climbed into the carriage, where a bag was pulled over my head, and handcuffs closed around my wrists. Nearby, the same fate had befallen my friend.

"We cannot allow you to interfere with our plans, Mr Holmes, you understand that, of course. Now be quiet and peaceful, and nothing will happen to you or your brother. All we need is time."

When the carriage finally stopped, we were bustled into a building and down a staircase, which, blindfolded as we were, presented us both with some difficulty. Once, Holmes, stumbled into me, but someone quickly pulled him away again. Our captors jerked us to a halt in what I assumed to be a room, but it was remarkable for its utter silence. No crackling of a fire, no floorboards creaked, there was no draught, and no muffled birdsong from outside. We were underground then, and no one would hear our calls.

The blindfold was pulled from my head and my hands were released, and suddenly I stood facing Miller again, who was retreating towards the door, his gun pointed at Holmes, who had sunken down onto a armchair, his face ashen. "Three days' time, Mr Holmes. Three days." With that, Miller was out of the room, the door banged behind him. There was no handle on the inside, nor any keyhole, although I heard the lock turn, and a bolt crashing down.

I rushed to the door, but it was hopeless, it was completely flush with the surrounding wall, and there was no way it would give in to my weight. "So we are trapped."

"It does not seem unlikely, does it?" Holmes, to my surprise, smiled faintly. "Don't blame yourself, old fellow. There's nothing we could have done."

"I'm glad you think so." Holmes had a tendency to blame himself for a case gone wrong, whether it was his fault or not, and such feelings usually heralded a black mood, which would have presented us with considerable difficulties in the current situation.

"Well, take a look at this." He passed me a crumpled sheet of paper, before his restless gaze travelled along the room. It was an interesting assortment, furniture from every corner of the world united in one colourful room. The armchairs where of British origin, but the side tables looked distinctly American, whereas the position of the footstool was occupied by one of those gigantic pillows one associates with the Arabian countries.

Holmes was currently placing his feet on one of them, and motioned me to sit down.

I settled onto a second armchair beside the first and smoothed out the note. "Why, surely this is again from Mycroft."

"Read it aloud."

"'Sherlock, I assume my foolishness to appear at the police station has to account for my current situation. You have by now, I'm certain, discovered that Madeleine is not in fact a police inspector. He has not allowed me to glimpse at his plans, but assures me that I remain unharmed as long as you fulfil his wishes. I am presently detained in my own rooms, but no real harm has been done. I trust that this will continue to be the case? Mycroft.'" I handed the note back to Holmes. "This is quite horrible. Do you assume they will really harm him?"

"Watson, they did not shy away from murder, don't forget that. I'm afraid our hands are tied. There are simply not enough facts! Also, this makes me wonder: 'as long as you fulfil his wishes'. It seems another level has entered this affair – this is no longer about getting me out of the way, else there would have been no need to take me alive, after their pathetic attempts at incapacitating me failed, nor would there have been any need to detain Mycroft. You see, this note presents me with various clues. Mycroft tells me that Madeleine is by no means working alone, nor is he the head of the operation, also, that there is no imminent danger to his well-being. Brother mine even shows some little concern."

"He does?"

The shadow of a smile flickered over Holmes's face. "I have grown accustomed to Mycroft's ways, Watson, trust me."

Suddenly, I recalled what I had intended to tell Holmes the other night, before the sequence of events overtook us. "Holmes! We know a third man of this gang, besides Madeleine and Miller! The small, black-clad fellow of the first prison was called Emile."

"Emile? Ah, yes, I do remember. Emile... I wonder..." Holmes lapsed into silence, and I could tell that he had discovered some new thread of thought that he would only share when he was ready, so I left him to his musings and walked about the room.

There was much to discover, but little to learn. Our prison was filled with curiosities from all corners of the world, but none revealed anything about our captors, or their intentions. When I stumbled upon a enormous spider preserved in formaldehyde, I lost my interest in investigating and returned to my silent companion in the armchair.

He glanced up as I sat, and thus I felt entitled to speak. "Would you like to move to that settee, Holmes? You don't look very well."

"I shall, Watson, I shall, in due time. Did you find anything of interest?"

"Nothing, really. Did you?"

"Maybe."

But he could not elaborate, for the door of our golden cage creaked open and Miller stood there, pointing his gun at us. "Madeleine wants to see you both."

We were taken upstairs, and across the hallway into a small ante-room, where Miller dug a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket with which he fastened me to a small metal ring in the wall the likes of which are used to chain dogs. Holmes, however, was motioned on into the adjoining room, the door closing firmly behind the two men.

I, having nothing else to do and being unable to hear anything, concentrated upon observing the room, but there was precious little to discover. It was unfurnished, and the blinds on the windows were drawn, only the gaslight providing some illumination. Suddenly, a voice was raised that I recognised as Madeleine's, and the door flew open to reveal the same, positively fuming, waving his gun. "I should shoot you on spot, Holmes!"

My friend strode past him with equanimity. "I doubt you would do your superiors a favour. Who are they, Madeleine?"

Miller seized my friend's arm. "I shall take him."

The black-clad man we had talked about only a short time ago stepped into the room, too, pulling a small gun out of his coat-pocket before he released me.

"Holmes?"

My friend silenced me with a sharp look that softened as soon as no one watched us, but he said nothing as we were directed into the hallway and up yet another flight of stairs which led us into a tiny, dark room. Emile lit a gaslight whereas Miller pushed Holmes into the middle of the room, where a pair of handcuffs was fastened to a rope that hung from the ceiling.

My memory of the following events is somewhat blurred, for which I will be forever grateful, and I am sure that my friend Sherlock Holmes would agree that it is a blessing. I wish, however, to give my readers a detailed account of what has transpired, and therefore must ask for forgiveness if my style seems in the following to be detached and unemotional, for the horrors are still to vivid to me to recall them too intensely.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Just wanted to inform you that this chapter is the reason for the high rating._

_

* * *

_**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 17**

Emile pushed me into the sole chair that furnished the room, where I was fastened tightly with ropes and a pair of handcuffs, then pulled the chair around the room until I was facing Holmes. He avoided my gaze, thus forcing me to notice for the first time the horrible contraption that was about to be put into use. The rope did not simply descend from the ceiling but ran through a ring just below the ceiling and from there towards the far wall, where Emile had taken position.

"Well, Holmes, did you change your mind?"

My friend turned his head to look at Miller, who stood leisurely leaning against the wall, his gun still levelled at my friend. "No." But when he turned back to face me, I knew what was about to happen. Never again have I seen such a look in human features, and I hope I will be spared to witness such cruelty ever again. Holmes had known what was about to happen, and he had accepted it, but that did not completely dispel fear and worry. I say worry, and I know that it was not for his own well-being, but for my sanity. I have seen many a horrible thing during my military time, but nothing has torn my soul as the events to come. But I digress.

Emile had immediately begun his task, and slowly the rope was pulled upwards, forcing Holmes's arms along with it, until he tightened his hands around the rope and was lifted off the floor, his whole weight cruelly forced to be carried by his arm alone. As long as his hands were closed around the rope and he held himself under his own power, I knew he would be relatively safe, but as soon as his strength lessened, his grip loosened, his wrists would be bearing his weight, small as it was, it would be more than his body could stand. Either would his bones break, or his shoulders be dragged out of their sockets, and I did not wish to ponder on which possibility was the more painful.

I did not know how much time did pass in that room, or how often Miller asked his question, and how often Holmes declined, with a firm voice at first, then, as time dragged on, only with nods. I did not know when Holmes closed his eyes in concentration, unresponsive to my attempts to convince him to give in, for his own sake – after all, I had not known what they were asking of him. But eventually, the moment came when the muscles in my poor friend's arms began to shake uncontrollably, and his grip loosened, shattering the silence with a horrible bang of breaking bone as his hold slipped and all weight suddenly rested upon his wrists.

Holmes lost consciousness immediately, but I was left utterly shaken, ripped to pieces by sympathetic pain and the desire and inability to help. Thankfully for us both, the torture was ended by Madeleine who instructed Miller harshly to take us both back into our prison.

Holmes was still senseless when the dumped him on the settee rather rudely, and even I had to take a moment to calm my shattered nerves after the door had closed again and we were left alone. However, as soon as some feeling had returned to my fingers, I hurried to Holmes's side and put him into a more comfortable position, his head propped up on a small pillow. I placed his arms on the centre of his body, where they would not come to further harm by anything I did, and began to roll up his sleeves. His wrists were torn and bloody, and his right arm was grossly swollen and turning different shades of blue. Broken, then, and possibly on more than one place. I found a small piece of bamboo and a velvet band which I used as a makeshift bandage to secure his arm and wrist and straighten the bone. He would not be able to move his arm or use his hand for some weeks, but in the face of our current predicament, it was the least of my concerns.

Holmes moaned slightly as I fastened the bandage around his thumb and on the back of his hand, and I quickly tightened my grip on the injured limb to prevent any subconscious movement. "It is all right, Holmes. It's over."

After a moment of silence, during which I had assumed him to have lost consciousness once more, his eyes flickered open. "Watson." If the ordeal I had witnessed had not accomplished the task of shaking me thoroughly, the sound of my poor friend's voice would have. It was nothing like the aloof and superior tone of usual, but hoarse, frightened, more that of a three-year-old than of a grown-up man.

"We are quite alone, old fellow. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried." He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, or rather, the one, for I would not relinquish his arm. "I assume I let go, eh? Most unfortunate."

How he could joke about such a thing was beyond my comprehension. "I guess you do not remember much, which is a good thing, but maybe you would enlighten me as to the reason of all this – and I would suggest not to try moving that arm. The bandage, I fear, is highly inadequate, and you would not wish to disturb the bones."

"Broken, then?"

"Yes, and badly sprained. Consider yourself fortunate that your shoulder remained in its socket."

He tilted his head at my harsh tone, looking quite innocent despite the lines of concentration on his face, no doubt signs of controlling pain. "Are you angry, Watson?"

"Am I angry? Well, of course I am! Whatever they asked, how could you risk such damage to your health? You could well have been unable to use your arm ever again, or at least experience chronic pain, putting a definite end to any violin playing, writing, chemistry and cases, even!"

"Watson." If my outburst disturbed him at all, he did not show it, but fell back against the cushion to take my hand in his. "If it had been but a mere trifle, I assure you I would have acquiesced, but I am not prepared to commit such a horrendous deed for their amusement, and continue to live with a guilty consciousness of having contributed to the murder of the King, several Members of Parliament, and if I am correctly informed, my brother, for he will be among the august personages to visit the Tower today." His speech was delivered in an offhand manner, but I freely admit that I felt my jaw growing slack with every word.

"Murder?"

"Yes, they are firmly convinced that I could commit the most perfect crime, especially in my current situation, and the blame would be mine alone should I be caught, for my word has already been questioned after this affair of constable Smith. It is fortunate indeed for the community that I do not intend to become a criminal. They threatened me with Mycroft's well-being, of course, but since all of the gang was assembled in that room, save the coachman, who has been bribed and probably knows nothing of the matter, I safely deduced that Mycroft was quite undisturbed and has taken care of himself by now, thus forcing them to take more drastic measures of convincing. I trust, dear fellow, that you are quite all right?"

"Me? I'm a little shaken, that's all."

"Good old Watson. They knew, of course, that even physical pain would not change my opinion, but forcing you to watch was indeed a clever stroke."

The concern for my well-being that was implied in his words touched me deeply, although in the face of our situation, I fear I failed to appreciate it. "You should rest, Holmes. The pain is bound to worsen, as soon as the shock wears off."

"Well, then I would advise you to turn down the gas, and let me have some rest, until this gang comes up with another idea to vex us. Providence is looking kindly on us indeed; so far, each attempt has failed. One more thing, Watson: I am firmly convinced that Emile is the head of this gang, and that their desire to have me commit a crime is but a measure to divert attention from the real crime. The meeting at the Tower is scheduled to last three days, now they have but two to carry out their plan. I wonder..." His voice trailed off at that, and I perceived that his eyelids had given in to exhaustion – he had fallen asleep. I uncovered a blanket that was not dusty or torn to shreds and covered him with it, carefully securing his arm in a makeshift sling before I turned down the gas, determined to get some rest myself.


	18. Chapter 18

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 18**

During my military service, I had not only learnt to sleep at any time and in any situation, but also to control the depth of my sleep, and I was pleased to find that the latter skill had not lessened with the years, for when Holmes stirred slightly, I was instantly wide awake.

"Watson?"

"I am here, old fellow." I turned up the gas and squatted down at his side, ignoring the protests of my stiff leg. Holmes looked exhausted, and I could see that the torture had affected him, even though he immediately denied it. "Would you care to share your observations?"

"It is not much, Watson, in fact, precious little. I do think their bravado about the Tower crime serves as a diversion, but from what, I do not know. Neither can I be certain about the identity of this Emile, save that, if he is indeed the head of this operation, there is madness in his method. It seems to have been designed to cause us the utmost pain in addition of getting us out of the way, and has failed up till now."

"But you have an inkling to the identity of Emile?"

"A dim recollection of a case I was once consulted upon, Watson, nothing definite. And, if I am correctly informed, the culprit is still serving his sentence. He would have been hanged, but the consulted physician deemed him quite mad."

Again, Holmes was not permitted to elaborate, for Miller burst into the room. "Holmes, you're coming."

My friend climbed to his feet without my aid, resting his injured arm carefully in the sling I had provided, and waved me away as I approached to join him. "I think, Watson, they are asking for me alone."

"Indeed."

Thus I was once again left alone, my mind conjuring up horrid pictures of my friend's fate, but if I followed his reasoning correctly, his life was not in danger, for they still needed his services.

When he was returned, he was only semi-conscious, the bandage and sling where all but gone, his face was a picture of utter exhaustion if ever I had seen one, and an uncharacteristic wetness glistened on his cheeks. "Holmes!"

My calls could not rouse him, and it was some time before he lifted his eyelids with an effort and fixed his gaze on me. He held his arm pressed against his breast, obscuring his bloody wrist from my view, but I had already seen that his bones were dislocated and the skin torn. "Watson." His voice, too, was slurred, probably from the fierce blow he had received, which had his cheek turning red and blue.

"What did they do now?" I guided him over to the settee and pulled a blanket around his shoulders, for he was shivering from shock. I had never seen my dear friend quite so disoriented, probably on the brink of fainting, but I was hardly surprised. They had purposefully aggravated his injury, and I fetched a second piece of bamboo and another band to replace the bandage. "Let me see your arm."

Some life returned to his eyes, and he shook his head reticently. "I don't think that is such a good idea."

"I'm a doctor, Holmes, trust me. You arm needs to be tended."

"And have them undo your efforts in a few hours?" His voice had risen to an unnatural pitch, approaching panic. The repeated torture had affected him, to a greater degree than any of us would have thought possible, and I did not need to see his face to understand that the struggle to regain emotional control was harder than fighting physical pain. Sherlock Holmes was, after all, human, and not above the effects of shock.

"Holmes?" I gently rested a hand on his shoulder and let it travel downwards, until his hand was resting in mine, his arm outstretched as far as it would go. "Would you care to tell me what has transpired while I work?"

He drew a shaking breath, but as he spoke, I knew my tactic had been the right one, for his voice was steady once more. "I do not recall much. I do fear, however, that I have provided them with some information that will make the diversion at the Tower easier to execute for a trained criminal."

"You need not blame yourself. The pain must have been excruciating."

"I would prefer not to linger on that subject, Watson. I believe, though, that our services are no longer required and that the birds are flown, leaving us to wither in this hole."

"Surely Lestrade will have received our note by now," I said, in an effort to calm him.

"But then remains the problem of finding us, Watson. There is hardly anything to go on, no one pays heed to a carriage, blinds drawn or not, and no one will search a deserted house. Besides, calling out will be futile, and, as you have no doubt observed, there is no lock to pick from the inside."

"He will find us, and don't forget your brother is on the case. You did say that his deductive abilities surpassed your own."

Holmes hissed rather menacingly. "For all his concern, brother mine will be rattled enough by the visit to the Tower to have his routine disturbed further by searching for his lost sibling."

"I think you are too hard on him, Holmes. However, I am finished." I had secured his arm as well as was possible, and our conversation had diverted Holmes's attention long enough to even straighten the bones once again.

"I see." He offered his left hand to me. "Thank you, Watson."

With a, I am afraid, shaking smile I took his hand, but he suddenly tensed. "Did you hear that?"

"I heard nothing."

"Stay away from the door, Watson! Over here!" He pulled me into the far end of the room, too close to my earlier arachnoid encounter for comfort.

"Whatever is the matter?"

Suddenly, the lock of the door was shattered by a bullet that went straight through the wood and into the opposite wall, crossing the spot where we had been just moments ago.

Holmes smiled grimly. "I thought I knew the sound of those boots. Lestrade, if I am not quite mistaken."

Relieved as I was at seeing the inspector, I could not help but noticing how unsteady Holmes's stride was, and slipped my arm around him. If he noticed, he did not remark upon it, but rested some of his weight on me, his exhaustion almost tangible.

Lestrade had enough knowledge of Holmes's character to be wise enough to ignore our appearance, and instead placed his revolver in his pocket and tipped his head. "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. Glad to see you both. Your brother is a remarkable man, Mr Holmes, if you don't mind me saying so. He talked to a boy in the street and then pointed out the exact location of this house to me."

Holmes broke into a short laugh. "Mycroft has employed the Irregulars, who would have thought! I trust, Inspector, the charges against myself are quite dropped?"

"Indeed. Unfortunately, the culprits are gone, and there's nothing left behind."

Holmes shrugged. "Then I would suggest that we leave this place as quickly as possible."

"Is Mycroft Holmes with you, Inspector?" I queried.

"No, I brought two constables, they are looking over the house. I have a cab waiting, and will take you to Mr Holmes's lodgings, as per his request. I will need a statement, but after that, I do not see why you should not return to Baker Street." He lowered his voice and whispered only for me to hear: "It sure looks like Mr Holmes is going to need some rest."

I could wholeheartedly agree with him, for as soon as we were safely installed in the carriage, Holmes fell asleep against my shoulder, despite Lestrade's presence, a thing he would usually have considered beneath his pride.


	19. Chapter 19

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 19**

I nudged him into wakefulness as we stopped in front of Mycroft's lodgings, but he barely made it up the stairs and onto the sofa before he threatened to drift off again.

For the fraction of a second, I imagined Mycroft Holmes looked utterly shocked at our appearance, but he soon returned to business, although I noticed that he hovered close to his brother, who was evidently fighting sleep. "It was Wiggins then, eh, Mycroft?"

"It was indeed. He came to me with your note, and said he knew where they had taken you. His story tallied with my facts, so I sent Lestrade. I trust you have told the child to keep out of such adventures?"

"I have indeed; however, I am quite grateful."

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, rather timidly. The presence of both Holmes brothers had the effect, even on myself, of causing utter awe.

"Ah, of course." Sherlock Holmes waved my hand away and sat up for a moment. "It is most important. Quickly, Lestrade, tell me what measures you have taken."

"The guards for the meeting have been tripled. So far, nothing out of the ordinary."

"Something will happen, and very soon."

"I shall have the force ready."

"Good." I noticed that Holmes refrained from mentioning that he thought it to be a mere diversion, but it was his habit not to reveal his opinion until he was absolutely sure, which, by his own admission, he was not. "You will keep us informed as to developments?"

"Yes, and I will also see to it that your name is cleared."

"No, wait just a little longer. I would rather have this business associated with a clever plot to catch the real culprit."

"So would I – you have hopes of identifying him, then?"

Holmes yawned, and I decided to put an end to it. "Not now, Lestrade. I will send you my statement as soon as possible."

"Yes. Well, thank you, Doctor. I trust I will see you soon." With that, Inspector Lestrade made his departure, and Holmes, with a sigh, sank back onto the sofa, his eyelids closing.

Mycroft sat down on an armchair nearby. "Doctor, while my brother is asleep, maybe you would tell me what has transpired?"

"It's an elaborate diversion," mumbled Holmes from his place on the sofa, his uninjured arm thrown across his face.

"By the looks of it, you should be sleeping," the elder reprimanded him and then leaned backward in his chair and steepled his fingers, as was his brother's habit. "I am all attention, Doctor."

It took me almost two hours to lay all the facts before Mycroft Holmes, and by the time I was finished, Sherlock was quite asleep, deep enough that I dared fetch my medical bag and give proper care to his injuries. The new bruise in his face was not as bad as it had seemed at first glance, but his arm was badly hurt. There were several long scratches to be found below his shirtsleeve and around his wrist which needed to be cleaned, and I was forced to bandage his arm so far that his wrist was completely immobilized, but at least it was safe to say that the broken bones would not be disturbed further. Knowing Holmes, I also prepared a sling, for I doubted he would stay in bed as long as this crime was not averted, or the criminals caught.

Mycroft Holmes had to leave for the Tower before his brother awoke, and I kept a silent vigil over Sherlock's sleeping form, turning the facts over in my mind, but unable to discover any clue as to what the original crime might be, if the business of the Tower was indeed but a rouse. Whoever was the mind behind this scheme was devilishly clever, and equally cruel.

"He would be worthy of the late lamented Mr Moriarty, wouldn't you agree?"

I was quite startled that Holmes was awake, much less answering my thoughts once again. "As much as I am relieved to see you awake and in better spirits, Holmes, I do wish you would stop reading my thoughts."

"I was not 'reading your thoughts', Watson, although I am grateful for the credit you give my poor deductive abilities. No, Watson, you were mumbling to yourself."

I could not help but smile. "Really, Holmes... Now that you have slept, would you like to return to Baker Street? I am sure Mrs Hudson is beside herself with worry."

"Ah, the good soul. Yes, we should indeed return, and I will be much more comfortable in our own rooms."

Mrs Hudson was delighted to see us alive and relatively well, although she later assured me that she had not for a moment believed the news of our death. She hovered around Holmes for some time and even managed to get him to eat a bite or two from his favourite cake which she had miraculously prepared, but after that, I witnessed Holmes plunge once again into the strange state of both physical and mental exhaustion that was not unlike one of his black moods. However, I knew the cause of it, and it worried me greatly that Holmes did not even seem to wish to work to distract himself. I could tell that even in his slumbers, his thoughts kept returning to the torture chamber, and I had to rouse him more than once as his dreams took a dangerous turn and he tossed restlessly, disturbing his injured limb.

It was well into the morning, and I felt very tired myself as Holmes finally left the realms of Morpheus long enough for an actual conversation. I offered him a toast and a glass of water before I breached the question that had been nagging on me ever since we had escaped our prison. "Holmes, if this affair is a distraction, oughtn't we do something about the actual crime? After all, it will happen either today or tomorrow."

"Don't you think I know that, Watson? I have been turning the facts over and over in my head, but there is nothing..." His voice trailed of as if something had occurred to him. "Would you kindly hand me my index?"

"Which one? E, no doubt, since you assume Emile to be the leader of this gang?"

"No, Watson, M, if you please."

"M?" I knew Holmes long enough not to question the decision, and so I flipped through the files until I reached the blue envelope of Moriarty, and behind it, the fine collection of M's. "Here you are."

To my surprise, Holmes flipped right over Madeleine, for his files were in strictly alphabetical order. "Do you suppose you have a record for Miller?"

"No – hah! I thought so!" Holmes startled me utterly by jumping to his feet, and throwing the files down upon the side table. "Come, Watson, we must be off, and be quick, man!"

"Where are we going?" I had but time to glance onto the file he had been consulting. It read: 'Eduardo Mile'.

"To the Yard, of course!"

As relieved as I was to see Holmes in better, if somewhat sinister spirits, I would have welcomed greatly if he had shared his thoughts during the cab-ride, but he was lost to the world, a sardonic smile playing around his lips that boded ill for any criminal we might encounter.

When we climbed out of the cab at last, right in front of New Scotland Yard, he took me by the arm as we strolled casually towards the front entrance. "Now, Watson, we embark upon a very dangerous journey. You have seen the file? Yes, Eduardo Mile. The man murdered several police officers in an attempt to steal valuable files from the safes of Scotland Yard. As you know, some state documents are also stowed there, no doubt he was after them, too. The attempt failed abysmally, and he was taken off to prison, until he was declared mad and shipped off to a madhouse. It needed but one doctor's consent to have him released. I have been blind, Watson! The name, Emile, seemed so familiar from the start, and considering the murder of constable Smith I should have known!"

"We are going to see Lestrade, then?"

"No. I hope we will see no one. We are here to prevent a crime, Watson. Mile had years and years to plot out his deranged second attempt. Since I had played a prominent role in his arrest, he naturally went after me first. I trust Lestrade to take care of the diversion, and it is our task to stop the crime."

"Theft, then?"

"Or worse, if anyone chances to cross his way. Here." He handed me my revolver, which I had not remember seeing him pocket. "Keep it ready."

The front hall of the Yard was shockingly quiet, and no constable hurried to welcome us. Lestrade had indeed been true to his word and had assigned the whole Yard to the task of safe-keeping the London Tower.

Holmes crossed the hall with accustomed ease. I doubt that any civilian has ever crossed this threshold as regularly like Holmes and myself did, provided he was not a criminal. I knew where the offices were, the holding cells, and even the morgue, but Holmes took me down a different corridor.

"Where are we going?"

"The vaults of Scotland Yard, Watson, the archives, a treasure-trove of the annals of crime. Lestrade has been so kind as to allow me to frequent them whenever the fancy took me."

"You have a key, then?"

"Good heavens, no!" Sherlock Holmes smiled and pulled a small bundle of leather from under his overcoat, which, as I knew well, contained his burglar's tools. "We shall manage, of course. If I remember correctly, there are two doors securing the vault, just down this staircase, Watson. The first should present us with no difficulties, the second is quite another matter. However, should we fail to open it, so will Mile. Let's hope we are not too late – I will never forgive myself if we are!" I sensed that he desired to quicken his step, but apparently thought better of it in the face of his own condition. If not for his injuries, the lack of sleep was certainly taking its toll on him.

"I have never seen this building so deserted."

"It is right well that they are all gone. The Yarders will stop Mile's accomplices, and that I think he knows, but they stand no chance against a man such as he. He will be prepared and more than willing to kill, mind you, Watson."

I could not help getting the impression that our venture was dangerous to say the least, and foolhardy at best, and that it was left to me to worry about both our safety. We would catch Mile off guard, or so Holmes hoped, but still he was up to no struggle and as usual showed little regard for his own well-being.


	20. Chapter 20

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 20**

We descended the stairs, taking a dark lantern with us which Holmes took from a desk at the top of the stairs. It had evidently been placed there for the same purpose, and it was soon passed on to me as we encountered the first door and Holmes knelt to get a better view of the lock, scanning his tools carefully. The door was easily opened, although Holmes had to rely on his left arm solely, for his right was still quite immobilized, and he ushered me through the opening before he closed the door almost completely behind us.

"It seems we are yet in time. Watson, if anything happens, there is a penknife hidden in my right coat pocket. If it comes to it, you must use it."

"You will."

"If I am able. There is danger in this, Watson, and I would not have taken you with me if I did not know I can rely entirely upon you skill with a weapon. Well, let's see." He squatted down in front of the second door, which struck me as being much heavier and thicker. "Oh, curse this injury! Watson, put down that lamp. I need your help."

It was said in an offhand manner, but roused my medical instincts instantly. It was a rare occasion indeed for Sherlock Holmes to ask for help, even during times of gravest injuries. I recall only one occurrence when a request was phrased quite as succinctly, when he asked me to study Chinese pottery while he lay ill after Baron Gruner's ruffians beat him almost to death. "Of course, Holmes."

Our combined efforts opened the door finally, and I considered it again fortunate for the community that Holmes had not taken it upon himself to become a criminal. Even wounded, he was a formidable opponent for any investigator.

"That's it. Inside now, Watson, and not another word. They will suspect we are here before them as soon as they find the door open."

It was both to my shock and horror when my light, after my slipping through the door frame, fell upon a mass of papers scattered everywhere, and even though most of the vault lay in utter darkness, my light lit instantly upon a little green safe among many beside which stood no other than the masked criminal we had known as Emile. I am afraid I gave a startled yelp and seized my friend rather forcefully by his injured arm, for he winced at my touch. "Holmes!"

He whirled around and, also, tensed, but said nothing.

Eduardo Mile, now without his mask, flashed a crooked grin at us, showing a badly tended set of teeth, blackened by tobacco. "Yes, Mr Holmes, you are too late. I thought the closed doors would fool you." He levelled a small gun at us. His voice, an unpleasant whine somewhere between a man's and a woman's, rose into an equally shrill laughter, that showed me clearly the deranged state of his mind. "This time, there will be no traces, and no detective to catch me. You have effectively cleared the building for me, Mr Holmes, although I would not have minded killing some coppers. But Madeleine will keep them distracted."

"What are you planning, Mile?" asked Holmes, and I marvelled again at the amount of self-control he executed. Nothing could shake his composure, not even the fact that he was swaying from exhaustion and, probably, defeat, so much that I slipped my arm behind his back to steady him. There was no way I could take out me revolver, but maybe it would help if I could reach the knife.

"Well, I have taken some of the more valuable files, and some documents, which I will sell, of course. The criminal classes do not appreciate to be blackmailed, but they do pay well. After that, I will disappear. But none of that has to concern you. You will not live to see the day I climbed the throne of the master criminal."

"You are mad."

"Probably, Doctor, but I will win. Miller!"

A revolver was cocked in the darkness behind us. "Secure them to that pillar over there, and let's be off."

"How do you plan to erase the evidence? They will find us eventually."

"No, they won't." Mile chuckled. "I will blow up the Yard. Did you not anticipate?"

I must confess that I found it hard to believe his words, mad as he evidently was. It was always sad to see the ruins of a human mind, and as a doctor I could not help but wonder whether his criminality was but a result of his illness, which we as of yet failed to be able to heal. Holmes, however, seemed to take his words seriously. "American explosives?"

Mile seemed delighted, and chuckled as I was yanked from Holmes's side by his associate, the so-called Dr Miller. "Indeed! So you have noticed my journey to the States."

"For medical purposes, as I am informed. Drop it, Mile. It is only a matter of time until the Yarders find you."

"I doubt it. And if they do, I will live the life of a rich man until then. Get on with it, man!"

I was thrown to the ground rather forcefully, and quickly secured with a rope they had evidently brought. The cold pillar pressed uncomfortably against my back, but it was yet to get more uncomfortable as Holmes shared me in my plight. I could not see what was going on behind my back, however, several small sounds alerted me to the fact that Holmes's injury was treated harshly; after all, my arms were cramped around the stony surface, and so were his, which must have been infinitely painful.

"Ready?" queried Mile, impatiently. Apparently, Miller had nodded, for the light was placed on the floor with a metallic sound, and in the shadows behind, footfalls neared the door. "I will leave the light, so you may see your death when it arrives. It is now ten. At twelve, the building will explode."

With that, they were both gone, and the door closed behind them.


	21. Chapter 21

**The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime**

**Chapter 21**

As a doctor, I was certain that Holmes must have fainted by now. The pain, in addition to little sleep and equally little food must take its toll, not considering the fact that the rope was so tight that it complicated the task of breathing.

As a friend, I did hope that he was conscious, and thinking of a plan to get us out. "Holmes?"

"Yes." His answer was curt and harsh, probably to guard himself against the pain.

"Are you able to reach your knife?"

"No. Can you?"

My hand was pressed against the pillar by the rope, the other cramped behind my back. "No." I tried to struggle against the bonds, and actually felt something give, but I could not continue, for Holmes, quite out of character, gave a distinct wince. "Stop. Watson, stop this instant!" His voice had risen to the same unnatural pitch I had encountered in our golden prison, and it occurred to me that instant that it had to be a sign of pain – never before had I heard Holmes cry out in pain. For our line of work, injuries were common, and we had every luck one could ask for, and it was more often than not that we avoided injuries.

"Holmes? Holmes, are you all right? My dear fellow..."

"Stop moving."

"I have."

"I noticed." To my relief, a small smile was reflected in his voice.

"I believe something gave."

"Yes. I'm sure you could free yourself. Just continue trying." To my horror, his voice almost broke upon those last words, and he took a moment to regain the familiar iron control over his body. After all, to him, it was a mere addition to the mind, a tool the mind could control. "If it saves both our lives, Watson, I can manage."

Reluctantly, I began to squirm again, loosening the bindings around my chest, and twisting my hands. It was possible to loosen them; whether it would suffice, I could not tell. But maybe it would give one of us the room needed to reach the knife in Holmes's pocket. After some time, however, the task had quite exhausted me, and my stiff shoulder throbbed painfully. I ceased the activity and enquired after Holmes's well-being. At first, there was no answer but his laboured breathing, then he swallowed audibly. "Just a little dizzy, Watson."

"I should stop."

"If you do, we shall both die in an hour. I shall not allow you to risk that, not even out of concern for my well-being. I would help you, but I fear my condition does not allow it. Catch your breath, and continue."

And so I did, but it became soon evident that I had but tightened the knots and thus gained a few inches, but nothing more. "It is of no use. Holmes? Did you hear me?"

"Perfectly."

"I don't blame you, Holmes. I don't mind dying, and I am grateful that we shall be together, but I would prefer it to be over a pipe of tobacco."

"Watson!" His cry was filled with relief, much to my surprise.

"What did I say?"

"I have some matches I can reach. One moment, Watson, and we shall be free." I heard him strike a match, although it took him three awkward attempts, and then I smelt the burning of fabric – the rope, apparently. Then, the light flickered out, and I heard Holmes move, and suddenly the ropes grew slack and Holmes was in front of me and offered me his left hand to pull me to my feet.

"Quick now, Watson, we must work fast. I still have my tools, and I will attempt to stop this explosion. Get that light. I wager the explosives are hidden in the cellar of the building, where the supportive structure is."

Soon enough, we were once again standing in the bright and vacant hall of New Scotland Yard, but Holmes did not for a moment hesitate. He hurried on towards another staircase which spiralled down past the holding cells and further into the cellar.

When we reached said door, Holmes stopped. "Watson. I will not force you to stay."

"But I shall, as you well know."

"I do." He flashed me a quicksilver smile, and rushed into the room. I could not help wondering where he found his energy. I, while not being as fit as in my military days, was clearly in better health at the moment, but I found my breath getting short and my muscles weary, whereas Holmes, who had been ill, beaten, bound several times, gagged, poisoned and tortured, seemed to feel no ill effects at the moment. He squatted down beside the bundle of explosives, moving rapidly and with accustomed ease. His right arm was held rather stiffly, but he seemed oblivious to the pain. "How much time, Watson?"

I dug out my watch. "But five minutes!"

"So little."

Even now, as our demise was so clearly upon us, I found myself incapable of believing that it would just end. After the horrors of Reichenbach, and the numerous other occasions where we came in close contact with death and still survived I had come to believe that neither of us could die in the line of duty, as it was phrased in the official force. My reason told me, of course, that it was utter nonsense, but when Holmes ceased working with a cry of satisfaction, his shoulders quivering in exhaustion, my hopes where, to my relief, fulfilled. Once again, a tragedy was averted, and our lives saved.

I was at Holmes's side the instant his strained muscles grew slack and he sank in a heap to the floor, his injured arm pressed tightly against his chest and supported by his protective left hand. Understandably, his energy was all but spent, but he still shoved me away, his whole frame quivering. "We cut it rather fine, Watson, but it is not over yet. Mile will go to the harbour – I remember now. The investigation of Mile's state of mind was no doubt conducted by Miller, and was asked for by a certain Captain Madeleine of his own ship, the _Victoire_. He owns it, Watson, and Mile will no doubt use it for his flight. I need you to find Lestrade, and quickly, and get to the harbour. Stop him, Watson, don't fail me."

"I won't. What about you?"

"You shall find me at Baker Street. Go, now!"

The urgency and eagerness in Holmes's voice was enough to spur me into action. Outside, I instantly hailed a cab, and promised the driver a sovereign if he took me to the Tower as quickly as possible. To my relief, we passed Lestrade on our way there, and I stopped my ride and startled several passers-by as I called across the street.

During Holmes's hiatus, my relationship with Lestrade had deepened further, and he did not think to question my words. Thus, my request was quickly conveyed, and the inspector ordered several constables to follow us to the harbour and climbed in with me.

"Now look here, Doctor. What is this?"

I found myself at a lack of breath and energy for lengthy explanations, and I am afraid I was rather tried by Lestrade's questioning look. I wondered whether this was what Holmes was feeling all the time when the inspector gaped at him open-mouthed. My thoughts kept returning back to my friend, who I feared had fainted away on the cold stone floor of the cellar where I had left him. But how could I allow the criminals to escape after we had suffered so much to prevent them from reaching their goal?

I rubbed my forehead wearily, and told Lestrade in a low, hurried voice of Holmes's leap of deduction, how we had rushed to the vault, where we had found the criminals already waiting. How we had been overpowered by them, how we escaped and stopped the explosion. "Mile has escaped with the papers, Inspector, and with his history, they are likely to be the most valuable ones Scotland Yard had to offer. We have to stop him now, or we will watch him rise to a master criminal who has the funds and manpower to commit every crime that his deranged mind demands. As a blackmailer, he could gather an army of associates around him."

Suddenly, I understood well why even Holmes had found it difficult to hide his disgust for blackmailers. If such a man would gain power in the criminal world of London, both his colleagues and the decent citizens of our city had to prepare for an era of terror that not even Holmes could easily end. Another Moriarty, indeed, only Miller was ruled by his madness, whereas Moriarty had worked with cold reason. Reasons could be divined by others, madness could not.

Lestrade had blanched as I had told him of the green safe, and now was cocking his revolver. "You had better be armed, Doctor. If we do not stop this man, he will start a war. Only yesterday the Superintendent locked a state document of the greatest value away in that safe – Mile is certain to have taken it. If not for my communication with Mycroft Holmes, I wouldn't even know."

"Good heavens!"

"Indeed!"

The cab jerked to an abrupt halt as we reached the large area of London's dockyards. If Holmes was correct, the _Victoire _was a small vessel, but not too small to cross the Atlantic. We could only hope we would find her in time.

Lestrade sent his constables into all directions, with the explicit instructions to take care and shoot to kill, if necessary.

That done, he turned to me. "Come, Watson, to the authorities! I hope we will discover this ship in time..."

At midday, the work in the harbour was slack, most sailors drowsed in the shadows, and the authorities were only spurred into action when Lestrade threatened the officials to arrest them if they did not act quickly.

When we finally knew where the ship was anchored, a constable came already running towards us. "Inspector!"

"What is it, Thomson?" asked Lestrade, almost running along the pathway.

Truth be told, I was having difficulties keeping up with his speed. The old wound in my leg was throbbing painfully, but I could not possibly let Holmes down.

"We have found the ship, sir – there are three men there, preparing to depart."

"You should have stopped them, you fool!" Lestrade sped ahead, fortifying my opinion of him being a man of action rather than thought. I was grateful of having him as an ally in this situation.

As soon as the vessel with the bold _Victoire _on her starboard side came in sight, Lestrade raised his voice to a volume I wouldn't have thought him capable of. "Don't move! Hands up in the air!"

The three men froze for a moment. Dr Miller nearly let go off Madeleine, whom he was helping climb on board after he had loosened the ropes that held the ship.

Mile recovered the quickest, and fired several badly aimed shots in our direction. "Get on with it, you fools!"

Lestrade had pulled me behind a fisher's boat that lay on dry ground for repairs. "Surrender, Mile!"

"Never!"

"Inspector!" Thomson had glanced around our hiding place, and judging from his horrified expression, the ship was leaving harbour.

"Oh, curse it all!"

Lestrade and I were on our feet in the same moment, and both our shots caused Miller and Madeleine to drop everything and surrender, hands up in the air.

Mile, however, was not so easily frightened. Even from my position, I believed to see the fire of madness sparkle in his eyes, and his voice dripped venom. "Fools!" Then, in a rapid movement that none of us really followed, he hurled himself into the water.

I fully expected him to disappear into the uncertain depth of the Thames. Diving, he would escape us, but at least there were hopes that the papers where still on the _Victoire_.

It was only as Lestrade sent Thomson and some of his colleagues on board to arrest Miller and Madelein and search the cabins, that we heard the shot from further up the river. As we were examining the chest that contained several papers, hopefully all that had been taken, a constable arrived to tell us that Mile had been shot as he tried to leave the water, where he had been welcomed by several of Lestrade's men. Mile's revolver had been rendered useless by the water, but he had tried to break through with sheer brutality, and had been shot in self-defence.

I was only glad that it was over, and eager to return to Baker Street to look after my dear friend, and to rest. I certainly hoped that Holmes had made it home, and was not lying collapsed on the streets of London. I'm not sure I would have had the energy to search for him.

Lestrade gave orders to take the papers back into the vault, as well as bringing the corpse of Mile to the morgue, and send a group of constables to our waiting carriage with the two arrested men and the orders to dispose of the explosive.

I watched as Mile was carried away, and even convinced myself that he was really dead. There was no doubt about it – he was a man I would not see resurrect, and had no desire to. Even though I have always maintained that any life is precious, I could not bring myself to really care. Mile had caused too many injuries to both myself and my dear friend, and had, after all murdered not only constable Smith, but also many other policemen. As for Holmes, I am sure he felt that justice was done.

Inspector Lestrade, apparently as concerned for my well-being as he was eager to hear the whole story, accompanied me as far as to our doorstep, whereupon I had related the details of our adventure. He would, several days later, visit to learn the particulars from Holmes, but as of now, I could not allow it. I was sure that Holmes's constitution had broken down completely, and it seemed wise to spare him any further violation of his pride by revealing his condition to Lestrade, even though he had come to tolerate and even respect the inspector, although calling him 'friend' would go too far.

Mrs Hudson welcomed the news that it was finally over with relief, informing me that Holmes had indeed arrived and had immediately collapsed on the sofa. She had brought up tea and stirred the fire, but apparently the detective had been unresponsive.

I hurried up the stairs as fast as my tired bones would allow, bursting into the sitting room rather unceremoniously. The room was darkened, obscuring the thin figure on the sofa from any view but his who knew what to look for.

"Holmes?" I sat by his feet and touched his thigh, where I knew him to be uninjured.

My touch brought him to life and he uncurled and rolled to his back to face me. "Watson. You're back. All is well, I assume?"

"Yes, indeed. We have recovered the papers. Both Madeleine and Miller are in custody, Mile was shot and killed in flight."

"It is just as well. He would have hanged anyhow. Now I must rest. Would you mind?" He had held out his arm to me, and I was only to glad to do my medical duty to him. After I had administered a mild pain relief, Holmes soon had fallen asleep, and I hoped dearly that his exhaustion would soon wane and he would be undisturbed by further nightmares.

This memoir, however, would not be complete without the explanation Holmes offered me some days after.

We were lounging leisurely in our armchairs by the fire. Holmes was for once without his pipe, for his bandaged arm would not allow him to stuff or light it, and he would not accept my help; therefore I had endeavoured to entertain him with conversation. He remained very sensitive about his recent experience, and the mere mention of our imprisonment would shake him to the core, but it was his own choice to provide me with a complete explanation of the events.

"You see, Watson, Mile's goal was from the start to gain access to these papers. His first attempt failed because of the presence of policemen in the building, even at night. Thus, it had to be his goal to clear the way. Also, since I had been partly responsible for his arrest, he tried to incapacitate me. He was lucky to have the aid of two people who hoped to share his future fortune from the start. A doctor, Miller, who effectively helped him avoid a lengthy prison sentence by diverting him into a madhouse, and Madeleine, who secured their transfer to the United States. There, they plotted and planned, until Mile was released and returned to England. I do not know how long he has been here, but the King's visit to the Tower provided him with the perfect opportunity. He knew that a threat to the King's life would effectively get the attention of the Yard.

"As for the methods he applied to me, the madness was clear in it from the first, and maybe he was also driven by some idea of revenge. As I have already remarked, the murder of constable Smith should have alerted me, for it was done in the exact manner as his earlier deeds. But I had not had the opportunity to see the crime scene, and thus this vital clue escaped me.

"I suspected the threats to be a diversion from the first, but I had not enough data to be certain. In fact, it was only until I realised who Emile truly was that I could assume what the true goal might be. The name directed my attention to the old case, but I was unable to grasp the meaning of it at first – I think in the face of the positive outcome and our situation, such a blunder may be forgiven. When I was finally able to consult the file, it all became clear and we acted upon it.

"It may not have been the most successful case to apply my methods, Watson, but it was certainly unique in the hubris of the criminal and the ambition of the plot."

THE END

* * *

_A/N: You guessed it: this was the last chapter. Thank you all for reading, and remember to leave a final review! Cookies for all who do!_

_Since this is part I of a trilogy, there will be a continuation, called The Curious Case of the Riders of Apocalypse. Watch out for that! _


End file.
